Queen of Gondor
by Celimlodyn
Summary: A Gondorian girl is kidnapped to be given as a bride to a Haradrim claiming to be King of Gondor.   Presumption:  If Queen Beruthial was pregnant but no one knew it, and her boat landed in Far Harad, this man would be her and King Tarannon's descendent.
1. Chapter 1

It was day a little while ago. Really. Farielle had taken a basket of filthy rags and bandages down to the river to wash, and the evening sun had glittered off the water. But now, somehow without her noticing, day is gone, and night has fallen. She hurries to put the last of the cloths back into the basket. Not so far away, the dull white of the Gondorian tents glow orange in the soft light of several camp fires, and the girl glances over at them to reassure herself, then lifts the basket to her hip and starts up the path.

Just a few steps up to the camp...hardly any room for error here. Miki'al shushes his companions, and watches the woman with the wet cloths in the basket as she rises, turning to return to safety. He counts the steps. One, two...his hands tighten around the rope in his hands, three...then he leaps from the shadows of the tall salt grasses, lunging at the young woman. His hands reach first for her head, more importantly her mouth, to try to stifle any cry for help.

A shadow moves, and Farielle turns her head, catching the onrushing man. For a second, she is frozen, then she drops her basket, opening her mouth to scream and turning to run - all at once. Laundry spills over the sandy ground, and she manages a shrill squeak before a hard hand clamps over her mouth and cuts it off.

Miki'al tackles the woman to the ground, his two companions leaping up after him, to help him subdue the woman before she can gain her escape. Miki'al's hard wiry body lands on top of the young woman, and he grasps her right hand to pin it down, unable to do more than hold her still. But he has companions. "Ropes! Feet first!" he hisses, trying to keep the noise level down.

Farielle struggles, trying to kick or hit, to bite the hand that's across her mouth. But she is a slight lass, and not accustomed to wrestling. The clean cloths are scattered across the path; some of them trampled into the ground by the men and no longer clean.

The girl's eyes are wide, and her chest heaves as she tries to scream - but her cries are muffled. And despite her kicking, someone grabs her feet, forcing them together.

The river is not being used as a latrine, though still men come and go from it, washing blood and dirt off themselves or else just cooling off as they can. Menelglir has just finished doing so, having waded barefoot for some time in the river to cool off, then splashing his head and neck with water, some distance upstream from the woman and her attackers. The Squire, having settled onto the bank for a bit to dry off and then pull his boots back on and secure the rest of his gear, now stands, stretching a little and rotating an arm around slowly, stiffly, as if it has been wounded-which likely it has. The noise of the camp drowns out any cries from downstream, at least so far, but some motion or other seems to catch the Squire's eye, for he stops and stares that way.

"Grab one of those..." Miki'al growls, jutting his chin at the clean and less than clean cloths, to indicate his desire. He wrestles her arm across her own body, still putting his hardest weight over her mouth. The legs are being bound with good sturdy rope, and he climbs up her body, straddling her hips with his knees. In the common tongue he asks the woman, "Are you a fine lady then, hmm? Got some lords n ladies in your heritage?" The other companion hurries to fetch a few of the rags, and brings them back, dropping them on Farielle's neck and chest as the two struggle, but keeps an eye on the camp to see if there's been any notice of the hapless girl's plight. Seeing the requested rags fall close by, Miki'al removes his hand from her mouth to quickly grab one.

Most of the camp has gone up to the fires, leaving few to look towards the river - and none who do so. Farielle's eyes are wild with panic, and when the man speaks - in common, despite his accent - she gives no sign of understanding. But when he moves his hand, she draws in a swift breath to scream again. And claws at his face with her free hand.

The scream, by chance, carries on the wind, though some of its force is lost. "Hey..." Menelglir says quietly, frowning. Then louder, "Hey!" He's a bit of a distance away, but he starts hurrying downstream along the banks, trotting-then breaking into a run. "Hey! You there!" He draws his sword.

Miki'al swears softly in his own tongue, grasping the white rag and quickly shoving it into Farielle's screaming mouth, wincing tightly as her free hand claws at his face as he stuffs more and more of it in, all the way to the back to get the entire rag in completely. "The other hand!" He says to his peers, turning his head slightly away as he tries to get his task completed. Finally he can stand it no more, and grasps her other hand with his free hand, putting her wrists together. "Bind these quick, Takar." he says, holding them out and still for the man with the ropes. He looks up sidelong and wary as the call of perhaps a sentry or...it doesn't matter, he's got a sword.

The third man also hears the challenge, and draws his sword as well, and readies himself to meet the Gondorian man. "Do it quick and go! I will handle this," he says in the Umbarean tongue, and strides forward to close the distance to Menelglir.

"You!" Menelglir shouts loudly now, on clearly seeing an enemy in front of him, with sword drawn. He lunges forward to the challenge, sword thrusting toward the third man's mid section. "Sneaking into the camp, eh?" He has not yet clearly discerned what is going on with the woman, as he has to focus attention on the man with the blade in front of him first.

The scream is cut short, and Farielle gags on the rag, and then chokes - her eyes growing wider and wider, tears filling them. She stops fighting though; all her efforts now going into trying to breathe, and panicking further as she fails - then straining against Miki'al's hold to try and reach her mouth.

"Was just taking a swim," the Southron answers in the common tongue with a flash of a smile, his white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. He doesn't wait for more conversation though, making the first move as he lunges in low, aiming for Menelglir's thigh.

"No no...I need those." Miki'al says, pulling against her pulling hands, seeing her goal to get at the rag. He smiles, or grimaces, either way. Takar wraps the rope around the wrists one, two, three times, quick as a wink, then threads the end through the woman's hands, then around to the other side of to go between her arms. He yanks the bind tight now, then quickly ties a double knot to keep the ends from working loose. Now Miki'al climbs off the woman, rolling her to the side so he can tie one of the other cloths over her mouth and behind her head, so she cannot force the rag out with her tongue.

Menelglir twists deftly out of the way, but brings his sword around in a slashing movement to try for his attacker's midsection as he does so. He calls out, loudly, yelling something in Sindarin toward the main camp, though doubtful that anyone will hear.

Farielle can't fight any more; all her strength is going to trying to control the gagging reflex. Trying to breathe. She retches, then draws a deep shuddering breath in through her nose, terrified eyes rolling towards where Menelglir's figure can be seen dimly in the shadows. More tears start to her eyes - of pain, this time.

The sword cuts across the Umbarean's waist, not quite gutting him, though certainly bringing forth blood. In the waning light, the blood cannot be seen against the man's red shirt, but the smell is strong and hot. "Be quiet." he says, slashing again at the Gondorian, higher now though, trying for Menelglir's neck.

Miki'al apparently cares little for the comfort of the lady, lifting her up to force her to stand. "Now. Lets go see if your family tree has any branches." he says almost lewdly, and bends down to grasp her waist with his shoulder, straining to lift her. Takar assists, and once Miki'al's got the woman balanced, he turns slowly and carefully to look at the third man, still engaged in battle, then slowly carefully starts to walk with his prize along the shore, toward Barazon, and more importantly, away from the Gondorian camp.

But Menelglir evades the Southron's blade once more, this time by blocking the blow with his own blade, metal clattering upon metal. He pushes hard to force the other man's blade away and back, and then swiftly and with a two-handed stroke, hews at the Southron's neck. "Invaders! Attackers! We are under attack!" he shouts again, this time in Westron and louder.

Farielle's arms hang awkwardly and uncomfortably down; her head banging into them with each step Miki'al takes. And uncomfortable soon turns to painful, as blood rushes to her head and muscles unaccustomed to such a position start to cramp. And it's not much fun having a shoulder stuck in your gut, either. Perhaps these discomforts distract the girl from thinking she'll soon be dead - or worse. Or maybe it is the other way around.

Now Menelglir's shouts are heard, and there is a sudden stir up at the camp. Men come running from the fires, around the tents, grabbing up weapons.

The man's cry is wordless yet his pain, and his mortal wound is clearly spoken in his tone. Thick dark blood spews from the Haradrim's vein, spraying his opponent with a hot gushing film, though after the first couple of beats the flow lessens noticeably, and the man falls to the ground, gurgling.

Miki'al speeds his pace with his burden, grunting with every other step, and huffing as he tries to make a quick escape. Takar is right on his heels, having no trouble at all keeping up. Takar glances over his shoulder as the hue and cry goes out. "By the Eye...this is not good." He continues for a couple more steps, then says, "Keep on, I will buy you time." Miki'al, too winded and strained to really respond, just keeps on.

The fresh blood makes little difference to Menelglir's blue tabard, which is filthy despite his just having been in the river. He pays little heed to the dying man, except to yank his blade from the man's flesh before rushing onward after the other two. Still, it is precious seconds that he has had to waste, and he has much distance to cover. "Archers!" Menelglir yells, hoping those behind him understand the suggestion.

But they don't. Or if they do, perhaps Menelglir himself blocks any shots. For no arrows come, though the sound of pounding feet tell of the coming of the men themselves. But they are even farther behind than the squire.

And Farielle? She tries to pound on Miki'al's back with her tied hands, but she has no strength left, and the blows are feeble.

Indeed, Miki'al doesn't even notice the blows, thinking them merely the swinging of her body against his as he runs in a somewhat gliding motion. He suddenly changes course, heading away from the river. In the twilight, it is hard to see where it is safe to put a foot, and he stumbles more than once.

Takar, however, does not wait for the man to catch up to him, instead turning and running back toward the Gondorian camp. He draws his scimitar with the cruel sound of singing steel. He seems to be charging straight toward Meneglir, though at the last second, he dodges to the side, swinging.

Menelglir has to change course, too, to avoid that blow, twisting about and nearly losing his footing on the wet river bed, so that the scimitar barely misses slashing through his arm. He twists about, off balance, striking a blow toward Takar's back, but it's not full force, as he is out of position.

Miki'al's figure is nearly lost in the gloom now, and as the Gondorian soldiers race to Menelglir's aid, they focus solely on Takar, not even aware that there was another man out there. And in their rush, they trample over the basket, and grind once-clean bandaging rags into the ground, and obliterate what tracks the sand may have held.

Miki'al's figure is nearly lost in the gloom now, and as the Gondorian soldiers race to Menelglir's aid, they focus solely on Takar, not even aware that there was another man out there. And in their rush, they trample over the basket, and grind once-clean bandaging rags into the ground, and obliterate what tracks the sand may have held.

Menelglir's blow is glancing, turning what would have been a crippling blow to the spine a mere cut. He growls in his pain, saying, "Think you'll find that in the dark?" swinging the sword around to try to cut the sword arm of the leading scout.

From behind, Menelglir lunges forward with his sword, trying to stab Takar through the back of his legs to cripple him. "Spread out!" he shouts to the arriving men. "Search the banks! There were more of them! And a woman, too-I heard her scream!"

Miki'al trudges on, huffing loudly now. "Just like loading sacks of grain..." he says softly to himself, in encouragement, and sets his sights on the outskirts of the Haradrim campsites that besiege the Keep of Caldur, the yellow-orange lights welcoming. He stumbles again.

"More?" someone shouts, and the Gondorians spread out, hunting through the darkness by the river, some turning up and some turning down. But Miki'al has left the water, and the shadows that fool his feet also hide him from his pursuers.

Takar continues to strike, swinging in large, general arcs at Menelglir's form, as his face and body becomes obscured to mere silhouettes against the cobalt sky of dusk. If he does not strike, he steps forward and swings again. But now there are more of the enemy around, and he turns and runs away from the river, though not going in the exact same direction as his compatriot.

It is a scene of chaos. Night has fully fallen by now, and in the darkness run vague forms of shouting men; one or two have torches, which only throw the others into starker shadows, confusing the eye.

"More?" someone shouts, and the Gondorians spread out, hunting through the darkness by the river, some turning up and some turning down. But Miki'al has left the water, and the shadows that fool his feet also hide him from his pursuers. (re)

It is a scene of chaos. Night has fully fallen by now, and in the darkness run vague forms of shouting men; one or two have torches, which only throw the others into starker shadows, confusing the eye.

Leaving the pursuit of Takar to the other men that have joined the chase, Menelglir plunges off downriver, following along the bank. "This way! " he yells loudly. "To me!"

Some of the men hear Menelglir and turn to follow him. Or try to. It's difficult to tell just where he is. But some at least catch up to the Squire. "What?" one demands, between breaths, "Is going on?"

Takar stumbles now in the dark, cursing and almost cutting himself with his own sword. He slows down, to save his own skin, relying more on the darkness, and his stealth to sneak away.

"A woman was screaming by the bank of the river," Menelglir says, stopping to catch his breath and try to calm the confusion. "I went to investigate, and there are Southrons-one with a sword drawn coming toward me,and two more-they took a woman with them!" He points. "This way they went, into the darkness.." then sighs. "Tis hopeless, I fear."

The other men stare into the darkness, trying to see. Then one shakes his head. "We can keep looking," he says, "But I don't think we'll find anyone. Not in this dark!"

"One of the healers?" asks another, and a third voice, dissatisfied, "Hate to just quit! A woman!"

"Then what do you propose?" Menelglir snaps at the two dissatisfied men-or their voices in the dark. "Search for them in the darkness, with torches-marking ourselves as targets for the Southron archers? Trample any tracks that might be found by our Rangers, as we stumble about? Search blindly in the darkness? Go find a Ranger, in any case, and let us get their advice on this matter."

"No," the man - whoever he was - sounds subdued. "I know it. It's just..." His voice trails off, and he turns away, going to find the rangers, as suggested. The other man sighs, his mouth twisting bitterly in the darkness. "Better call them off," he says, of the other men who still are searching. Then he lifts his own voice to a stentorian bellow - a sergeant, by the sound of that! - "FALL BACK! TO CAMP!"

"To camp," Menelglir says, sighing heavily, though. He gives a last look into the darkness before he follows the rest of the men to camp, coming in last.

As the sounds of the shouting men, speaking in a tongue that does not belong on these shores finally recedes into the distance, Miki'al slows his pace, as much to get his breath as anything, and still he continues, setting his sights on the very closest campfire he can find. Once he is within the warm aura of its golden glow, he finally puts down his stolen prize, standing there breathing hard for just a moment, and also to get a better look at her.

Farielle is limp, her eyes shut, though she hasn't fainted. Black hair tangles about a very white face - she is slender, young, probably pretty, though it's hard to tell in these circumstances. And dressed in a plain white smock, a little the worse for the wear.

Miki'al takes a big breath, and wordlessly he kneels beside the young woman, and reaches down to pull the gag down off her mouth. "So, wake up...wake up pretty..." he finally says in the common tongue, slapping her cheeks gently. Then he reaches into her mouth to pull out the cloth.

The girl shudders and gasps, working her mouth - so dry from all that cloth. Her eyes open, staring at the face above hers; they are dark with fright and revulsion. "Who..?" she whispers, hardly even a croak comes out. "Wh-what do .." She tries to swallow. "What do you want? My - my father will.."

"Your father will mourn your loss for many ages, likely," the man says in a cheery voice. "Or else just get busy making a new daughter. Does he already have replacement daughters waiting in the wings?" he asks, smiling. His teeth are bright against his skin.

Farielle stares at him. "..pay you," she finishes, at last, faintly. But it hardly seems this man, who speaks so callously of replacement daughters, will want money, and she closes her eyes again, and clenches her teeth against tears.

"/Pay me./" Miki'al says in a surprised, asking tone. "Would he now. And what might you be worth? Does he even have money, after eking his living out in the cold climes and rocky soil of your land?" He chuckles softly, staring at Farielle's face without shame or embarrassment, as if memorizing hers. "Who is your father then, sweet?"

The girl's eyes pop open, a spurt of very welcome anger helping to keep her terror at bay. "Of course we have money," she says indignantly. "And it's better than being hot and dirty all the time! Let - let me go. I promise, you will be well paid."

Miki'al moves toward the young woman's bonds, and fiddles with them. But rather than untie them, he gives them a sharp jerk, to ensure their tightness. Then, still smiling, he gives her face another couple of soft, condescending pats. "What's your name, girl? And how old are you?" He rises now, walking to the fire.

A gasp of pain. "Farielle," the girl says, her anger dying, leaving her voice dull. "Gir-Girithlin." She doesn't answer his other question, but turns her head to stare into the darkness away from the fire with wide, unseeing eyes.

"You did not answer my second question..." he says in an even, measured tone. "And what is your father's name? And how much would he pay me NOT," he reaches down to pick up one of the burning sticks from the fire, and turns to look at her, "to brand you as a slave?"

There is no response as he begins to speak, but at his last words, Farielle turns her head to look at him, her eyes fixing on the burning stick in horror. "Nineteen," she says faintly. "Wh-whatever you wish." Desperately, she tries to keep her voice from shaking; and succeeds. Mostly. "My father is Caronn. Girithlin."

His approach stops as she answers at first, then he hmms softly. "A bit old," he says to himself. Then he continues, flopping himself down on the ground next to Farielle somewhat casually, his arm resting over her hips like she was a bolstering pillow. "I see." He regards the stick, yellow-hot coals breathing excitedly on the tip. He turns it in his hand to view it on other sides. Then he turns his head, looking at her, with a languid smile. Almost conversationally he says, "And what /other/ important relatives are you descended from...other than your father, the great Caronn Girithlin?" He holds the stick closer, where she can see it plainly.

"Important relatives," she repeats, sounding puzzled. It is the height of strangeness to by lying here in the dark, tied hand and foot, discussing genealogy with a Haradrim. "My mother was a Draudagnir," she offers, hesitantly, darting a glance at his face to see if this is what he wants. The brand moves closer and her eyes return to it, drawn as if by a magnet.

Having no idea of the important persons of the lineages of the northmen, Miki'al's expression is somewhat blank. "Draudagnir? Hmm. Tell me. Are the Draudagnirs more befitting in the clothing a slave? Or a princess?" The hot coal, now cooled to a warm orange, is brought even closer to the face, and Miki'al holds the woman down to keep her from thrashing, if she tries.

Farielle's breathing is shallow and fast, and her skin is clammy; she swallows hard, trying to press her head back into the sand, turning it sideways as far from the coal as she can; and shutting her eyes once more. "I am not a slave!" she says, hardly able to get the words past muscles so tight they surely must break. Clothing - she snatches at this thought, insane as it is. "I have - better dresses. At home. This - is for healing."

The stick stays there for just a moment, the warmth felt on the sensitive skin of her cheek, before he smiles and tosses it back to the fire. "Perhaps I should take you to the Lady then." He rises, looking down at his catch, then looking around for Takar, who still has not rejoined him. He checks her hands to make sure they are not too blue, not too cold, then he lifts her up again, carrying her deeper into the Haradrim encampment.

_Author Note: Several people were involved in the writing of this story at Elendor Mush. Each character is written in present tense by a different person. Hence the difference in style._


	2. Chapter 2

_The night passed so slowly. Farielle lay on the sand, staring at the starry sky. It was so clear and so remote. Tears trickled down her cheeks and soaked into the ground. Her shoulders ached from being pulled forward, and her hands throbbed. She could barely feel her feet. 'This can't be real!' she thought frantically. 'I'm dreaming... I'll wake up soon, and be back - back in the healer's tent, with Eloissel calling me to hurry up and bring her hot water...' _

_The stars wheeled overhead, men snored and grunted in their sleep. Someone walked towards her - she shut her eyes and refused to look. They stood over her for a long time before she heard their footsteps going away again. The sky slowly turned grey, then pink, then the sun burst over the horizon, hot and white, and her captors stirred. Farielle choked back a whimper of terror as one man knelt over her, reaching out to grab her arms. But all he did was pull her up. His shoulder dug into her stomach as he stood._

Through the rubble of the streets, two men wind their way through, the second man carrying a barefooted and bound woman over his shoulder. As they find the Lady of Seaward Tower, their direction has more purpose, as does their stride. "Lady." The first says, bending a knee. The second man stops behind, bending down to drop his prisoner on her feet, and holds her standing up, as balance is a little difficult for her.

Eruphel is watching two men sparring, but turns as she is addressed. "Yes?" She looks at the first man, then the second, then the young woman.

The sparring men - Gimildaur of Farside Tower and Hayya of Seaward - are focused on each other, and ignore the newcomers.

Farielle sags - it is a good thing that the man is holding her up; not only are her feet tied, but her legs have gone to sleep and she couldn't stand on her own. Her dark hair is filled with sand and there are smudges on her face - which is white and terrified. Wide eyes stare at the woman, then dart towards the sound of blades clashing against each other.

Broad movements between the combatants distract Eruphel for a moment, and she laughs and claps as Hayya dodges a blow, and again less enthusiastically as he lands one. "Very good, very good!" she says, then turns to the two men. "So what is this?" she asks, looking at the frightened girl with...compassion, but not pity.

"My Lady, I am Miki'al, and this is Takar, and I believe that you have said that you would pay double for a captured slave with some highborn heritage."

"Highborn heritage?" Eruphel says, looking at the young woman more closely now. "Is she untouched?"

"So far as we know, yes, Lady." he says, bowing his head.

Eruphel looks at Farielle, the girl's wide, scared eyes almost amusing. "Tell me then, girl, what is your name, and who are you related to?"

The woman is talking and Farielle drags her gaze away from the fight to stare at her. Her eyes are a blueish-grey, not the straight grey of most Gondorians. "F-Farielle," she stammers after a minute. "Girithlin." She repeats what she told Miki'al earlier, still unsure if it is the proper answer to a question she finds entirely bewildering. Why do these barbarians want to know who she is related to? "My - my father is Caronn Girithlin, and - and my mother was of Draudagnir."

Eruphel sighs, her brow furrowing. "Unbind her." she says.

The man kneeling rises, and the two exchange a look between them, unsure what this command means. Did they get someone not worthy? "You better be worth it." Miki'al threatens in Farielle's ear as he holds her up, so Takar can start on the hands, teasing loose the knots that have been tightening and straining all night. After a while, he decides to just cut it, and pulls out his knife and begins sawing.

Farielle winces as the ropes are cut away from her hands, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out. The ropes were not so tight as to cut off the circulation, but they have rubbed her wrists and ankles raw.

As Hayya falls, Eruphel sighs, and shakes her head. "In battle, Hayya Mor, if you can pick up a longsword, do so." She looks at Gimildaur. "And I thank you. You are a fine swordsman. It is a pity you are not in my tower, sir."

Then she looks back to Farielle, as Takar is sawing at the bindings around her ankles. "Come here, Hayya. What is a Draugandir...Draudagnir, is it? Yes." She turns her head to look at him. "What is that?"

Quickly Hayya moves to his Mistress while saying, "Yes, Mistress." He is favoring his one leg a bit as he moves. He stops next to his mistress and says, "Draudagnir is one of the smaller Noble houses of Gondor."

A slight nod is what Gimildaur gives Hayya before he sheathes his scimitar. He turns his glance to Eruphel and shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Had my interests been more to the liking of my father, no doubt I would be, Lady. As it turned out, however..." He trails off and shrugs once more. "Shall you be needing me for anything else?"

The girl staggers as her feet are cut free, looking back and forth between the Haradrim. "They are a fitting match for Girithlin," she says, with a faint hint of haughtiness, as Hayya's words seem to denigrate her mother's kindred.

"Good enough." Eruphel says first to Hayya. To Gimildaur, she smiles. "Well, perhaps your interests can still change. Please, sup in my tent on the morrow, for I would enjoy hearing a story about your father. Till then, I thank you." she dismisses him, and turns to look at Farielle.

"Very well then, Farielle of House Draudagnir, you look...somewhat pretty..." she begrudgingly says, "Hayya, you will take her to the smithy and have some shackles placed on her feet, and a heavy stone attached. Her hands can be free. Inside the tent, you will see that she has what she needs to clean herself up." Eruphel scratches her cheek thoughtfully. "I do not have anything else for her to wear just now."

Bowing his head to Eruphel, Hayya says, "Yes, Mistress, it will be done." Moving over to the young woman, he places his hand on the back of her neck and grips it tightly, but not overly so, saying to her, "You will do as my Mistress commands." Looking back to Eruphel, he asks, "Shall I take her now?"

"I shall see if I remember any stories," says the Master Crusader rather neutrally; his gaze flicks to Farielle and the situation there. A brief frown mars his features before he bows his head to Eruphel. "Lady," says the man before he turns and resumes his walk.

Somewhat pretty. Farielle's eyes flash, anger once more driving back the ever-present fear. But all she says is, "Girithlin. I am of House Girithlin." But the mention of shackles and a stone - terror leaps up once more, to be forceably beaten down; she flinches at the touch on her neck, but manages not to cry out.

Eruphel nods now, smiling blandly at Farielle's insisting reply. "Take her now. I will return to my tent, and rest." she says, and after looking around once more to take it all in, she remembers the two men. "Ah yes, the price." She reaches into her pocket, pulling out several coins, which she counts. "Double the price of a slave...for each of you." she says, then moves on, making her way eastward now.


	3. Chapter 3

It is now late in the evening in the former city of Caldur, the city that now stands in ruins. Most, if not all of the buildings are but shadows of their former selves, but the Haradrim encampment is still busy, lanterns and fires light up the camp and casting long shadows all about. Within the Lady of Seaward's tent it is no different: a few cots line the walls, a few comfy chairs and in the center is a finely crafted table with maps all about it, and lanterns hang all about lighting the inside of the tent.

Within the tent is Lady Seaward's personal slave Hayya. He sits upon one of the cots with his shirt off looking at the foul scars upon his chest, even tracing them with his finger and shuddering a bit as if remembering his near-death experience. Shaking that feeling off, he looks about the tent and sighs. Slowly getting to his feet, he begins to straighten things up, folding blankets, straightening papers, simple tasks. Hayya is a tall man, of distinctly Gondorian look.

The water in the basin that Hayya has brought has grown cold, untouched; a few cloths beside it still folded neatly. Since being brought here, Farielle has done nothing but crouch in a corner and shake; her head bent over her knees, her hands in fists - and one thrust into her mouth to keep from crying out.

Now though she unfolds herself stiffly, having won - for the moment - the nearly impossible struggle not to give into panic and terror, and scream. For a long minute, she stares blankly at the cold water, and then she reaches out slowly for one of the cloths and even more slowly washes her face. When she has done this, she stops, the rag hanging limply from her hand, and stares into nothing, as if she can't think what comes next.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hayya spots the small woman beginning to clean herself. Looking at her with pity, he smiles and says, "Would you like me to re-heat that water? Get you some food perhaps?" The slave's words are kind for the most part.

Farielle jerks, and stares at Hayya. Clearly, she had forgotten he was there. After several minutes, she opens her mouth to say something; when no sound emerges, she clears her throat and tries again, her voice sounding as if she either hasn't spoken for months, or has spent the last of those months screaming her throat raw. "Yes." From somewhere, she drags up, "Please." And then is silent for another long minute. Then, "Some - some salve?" she asks tentatively, moving her hand a little. Around her wrists are welts where the ropes she was bound with cut into the skin and rubbed it raw.

Nodding his head, Hayya moves over to the small fire and picks up another bowl and fills it with hot water. Moving over to the woman, he kneels down and sets it beside her. Smiling at her softly, he picks up the cold water and gets back up. Moving to the door of the tent, he hands it to someone outside and the sound of water being dumped out can be heard.

Moving back to the fireplace, Hayya looks through a small trunk. Finding some salted meat and some dried fruit, he puts them upon a small plate and moves back towards the woman, stopping at small pack near his cot to retrieve a small bundle.

"Thank you," Farielle whispers, and dips her cloth in this warmer water, dabbing at the crusted blood and rope-burned skin on her wrists, and hissing between her teeth. When she is done, she stops, as before - as if her brain has stopped working and the world has ended and there is nothing else to do but sit and stare - until after a few minutes, a slow thought returns.

She takes a piece of fruit and eats it slowly, and then a bit of the meat, watching Hayya. And now her eyes are filled with the questions she is too frightened and confused and shocked to ask. Why Am I Here, and What Now, and What Is Going To Happen To Me. What she can say, is, "Wh-who are you?"

Unwrapping the little bundle, Hayya says,, "Apply this to your injuries, it will keep away infection and help you heal faster." Squatting down before the woman, Hayya says, "My name is Hayya Mor, Slave of Seaward tower. Personal Slave to our Lady of the Tower, Eruphel." Looking at the wounds upon her wrists, Hayya says, "You should wrap those with fresh linens as well." Getting up, he moves back to his cot and retrieves some bandages to wrap her wrists and returns to squat down before her.

Almost blindly, Farielle reaches for the salve and begins to smooth it onto her wrists. She winces away from the word he uses - slave - but says nothing, only reaching down to rub a little onto her ankles as well, trying not to touch the shackles. The rope-burns there are not as bad, by virtue of not having been pulled at so much.

"That is not a Gondorian name," she says after a moment, with a sort of desperate courage. Hayya comes back with bandages, and she looks at them for a long moment before saying, "I cannot put them on, myself. Will - will you help me?" Her words come haltingly, as if she has to stop and remember each one before saying it, like someone who is speaking a language she has only just learned and never heard aloud.

With a nod of his head, Hayya says, "No, this is my slave name. Given to me by my Mistress." Setting one of the bandages down, Hayya says, "I will wrap them." Gently he lifts her one hand and begins to wrap her wrist; the bandage goes around a few times and then he ties it off snugly. Inspecting his work, he says, "Your other hand?" and then doing the same thing to her other hand, he smiles and says, "You will heal, you are lucky you are pretty and a woman. You receive far better treatment and care that way."

Farielle watches the cloths being wrapped around her wrists. There is something very soothing in the motion - around and around and around... but the moment of almost-comfort is shattered. She takes a deep breath, and in a very small voice, asks the question she dreads to know the answer to - and fears she already does. "What - what are they going to d-do with me?" Her voice shakes, but only a little, and her hands close slowly into fists again, the fingernails biting into the palms.

Thinking a moment, Hayya says, "I do not know what they plan to do with you, perhaps make you a servant in the tower to assist my Mistress with her daily tasks, perhaps you are to be married off to someone. I cannot say for sure." Getting to his feet, Hayya returns to his simple tasks of straitening up the tent, placing blankets and pillows upon cots and then what looks like preparing a meal for someone.

"Married?" Farielle stares at Hayya in utter astonishment, and the sheer absurdity of this suggestion is enough to bring back some semblance of her normal manner and speech. For the moment, at least. "There are not enough women in Harad that they must steal them?"

With a nod of his head, Hayya says, "You would be thought of as a great prize, or perhaps be meant strictly for breeding. But I do not know the plans of my masters." Boiling some water, Hayya sets up a plate, utensils and cup at the table then moves back to his cot and sits down. Unfolding his shirt, he looks it over a moment and begins to put it back on.

Breeding. Farielle wrinkles her nose in disgust. "But why?" she asks. "I thought they hated us." For the first time, she notices the scars the man bears. "What happened to you?" she asks. Automatically, she reaches for another piece of meat, chewing slowly and swallowing. "May I have some water?" she asks, and also, "Is there a brush. For - for my hair?" Her hair is tangled and full of sand.

With a look of disgust, Hayya says, "The handiwork of your Knight Captain.." his words are full anger and hatred. Pulling his shirt on over his head, he sighs and says, "They will heal in time.." Fixing his clothing and getting to his feet, Hayya picks up a cup and fills it with water and then moves over to the woman again and hands it to her gently.

"Lord Imrakhor?" Farielle asks. "He is a fool," she says sharply. "He should be hung!" She shuts her lips tightly, an angry look in her eyes, that fades a little as Hayya brings her the water. She takes it, drinking thirstily. "Thank you... it is so hot!" Little by little, she finishes the fruit and the meat, and then combs at her hair with her fingers, smoothing it as best she can, and straightening out some of the tangles. There is nothing she can do about the sand, without washing, and she doesn't seem inclined to do that right now.

With a nod of his head, Hayya says, "Trust me.. he will die." His words are full of anger and hate; shaking his head, he takes a deep breath, until, regaining his composure, he says, "I will ask about getting you a comb for your hair, but that may have to wait until we return to my Mistress' tower." Moving back to his cot, he sits down again and leans back.

Farielle nods. Quietly, she says, "Thank you. For - for being kind." And she sits in silence, staring at nothing, her face turned away so that he will not see that tears have sprung to her eyes.

_Tower. Her thoughts beat at the inside of her head like a bird frantically trying to escape a cage. 'I still know the way back,' she thought, with a glance at the tent door. 'The ships may yet be there - and surely they are looking for me. I heard people shouting. I must...' She looked at the chains around her ankles and the rock they are attached to - she could barely move it, much less try and run - and despair slid like ice through her chest. Folding her arms about her knees, she hid her face in the crook of her elbow. 'They will come. Surely, they will come. They won't just leave me here.' But unbidden, a memory grows in her mind - of beds of injured men; the drawn, weary looks on the men's faces; the whispers that cut off when she had come near replaced by forced smiles. _


	4. Chapter 4

The night has passed, another day has come, and it also is nearly gone.

Eruphel had slept. For a full twelve hours after the sound of great fighting finally died down, and the Lady of Seaward returned to her tent, relatively unscathed, yet the exhaustion of years seemed to be upon her. She retreated into a sequestered portion of her tent, with instructions not to awaken her for any reason, unless the tent was afire. And the servants, guards and slaves seemed to take that seriously.

So now, at last, Eruphel emerges looking more refreshed than Farielle, at least, has ever seen her. She almost looks young, even. And, she is dressed in clean robes, her face and body washed, what wounds she has freshly dressed. Still, Eruphel putters in to the main area of the tent with small, sleepy steps. She yawns for a bit, then lets herself down on the pile of pillows, looking at Farielle judgingly, but saying nothing.

Farielle is sitting in the same spot in the tent where she has been, for the most part, since she was brought here. On the floor, not quite in a corner, but close. Her knees are hugged to her chest, her arms around them, and her face resting on top - her eyes are closed, but they snap open at the small sounds of Eruphel's arrival. She watches the woman warily, silently.

For her part, her face is clean, and her hair has been straightened, though it still is somewhat sandy and uncombed. There are neat bandages on her wrists, and around her ankles beneath the shackles. Her dress is plain and clean, if wrinkled - and no longer white. From somewhere, someone has found a faded blue gown for her.

A messenger appears, almost as if by magic. Almost as if he had been waiting for the Lady Eruphel's awakening for several hours now. Thusly permitted by the Seaward guards, the messenger - who casts his eyes about the tent, letting them linger on the Gondorian lady - bows to the mistress of Corsairs.

"My Lady. Lord Alphros has come to seek an audience as per your message."

Eruphel stares at Farielle a bit longer. Soon, a slave arrives, requesting if there is something the lady would like to break her fast with. "Eggs, coffee...some meat...wine..." Eruphel says, not really looking away from Farielle, except for a moment. "Farielle Girithlin, have you had aught to eat recently?" She dismisses the slave with a wave of the hand before waiting for Farielle to reply, though.

Just then a Farside messenger is admitted, which is not surprising. But when he delivers his message, the Lady appears surprised nonetheless. "So soon?" Her tone betrays her emotion. "Very well then, admit him." Eruphel tightens the cover of her robes, and runs her fingers briefly through her hair, like she cares what he thinks about how she looks.

Farielle looks blank at Eruphel's question. She is silent a long moment, as if hunting for thought or memory. At last she says, "Fruit. I don't remember. This morning." She startles at the messenger's arrival, though his message means nothing at all to her.

The messenger bows and departs, and the tent flap is not reopened until a sufficient interval of time has passed. Then, as if on cue, the veiled King-Claimant of Gondor appears as Farielle speaks of fruit. "Lady Eruphel," he greets with a dip of his head, ere a curious gaze drifts in the direction of the Gondorian woman.

"Lord Alphros..." Eruphel says, rising from her place on the pillows. She approaches him, extending her hand in greeting. "Forgive me, I suppose I am unprepared. When I sent out messengers to find you, I expected results in a month, not a day..." She waves a graceful hand to the cushions in invitation. "And so I had planned to have this woman more...presentable." She looks again at Farielle, the look somewhat harsh. "Though, even dirty she is comely. Since you have attempted to grant me something which I greatly desired, I thought I should reciprocate." She smiles with reserve.

The words sink in, and then their meaning, and Farielle's eyes widen. She looks at the man - Lord Alphros - a faint crease growing between her eyebrows at the odd veil.

Alphros accepts Eruphel's hand, placing a kiss upon it... One might sense the sentiment of a raised eyebrow beneath his veil, though he does nothing more than smile wryly. "That is very thoughtful of you," he admits, turning to look at Farielle. Whereas the Lady of Seaward's is harsh - the look of a Corsair - his manner is different. Not warm, but not calculating either.

"Greetings, Lady...?" he speaks to the Gondorian upon the ground, before catching sight of her bound ankles. Tilting his head back to Eruphel, he adds, "Since I have caught you by surprise, might I suggest now is a fair time to remove her bindings?"

Eruphel looks at Farielle, then at the former Farside Lord, thoughtfully, then answers Alphros. "To be honest, I had planned not to do so until she was safely back in Umbar. But for you..." Eruphel claps her hands, and a guardsman arrives. "Remove her shackles." Eruphel orders, and at once the man hurries to where the Gondorian girl sits, and works at the locks of the manacles with his keys.

As they wait, the Seaward slave returns with others in tow, carrying a serving tray with boiled coffee and tiny cups, along with sweeteners. Behind her comes another tray with cold meats, cheeses, olives dates and other fruits. After him comes wine. The eggs apparently require longer. All of these are brought to the Lady and presented with a bow. Eruphel picks what she wants off the tray of cold food, while the drinks are prepared for her and Alphros. After she is served, the tray goes to Alphros, to offer refreshment.

At last, the shackles are undone, and the guard stands back. "L...King Alphros anAzulada, allow me to present..." Eruphel moves toward Farielle to offer her hand to help the girl rise, "Farielle Girithlin, of Gondor."

Alphros gives the offered refreshments an appreciative amount of attention, but then waves them away without taking anything. "Caution is our friend, but let me allay your fears; the Gondorians are driven out so where is she to run? To death in the deserts or crueller hands in Umbar? The Lady is quite fortunate... If she is who she says she is." With that the would-be King glances to Farielle, a glint of suspicion in his tone.

"Tell me, Lady Farielle, do you bear the name Girithlin by birth or marriage?"

There is little obvious expression in Farielle's face - fear is hidden deep under a layer of numbness. But now a little confusion grows in the blue-grey eyes. She doesn't move as the man works to unlock the shackles, though she doesn't resist either as he moves her feet to do so. When Eruphel holds out her hand, it takes a moment for the girl to put her own in it and stand - and she sways a little as she does so, before finding her balance. Lord - King - the frown grows; and so does the locked-away terror.

Alphros' words do nothing to allay it. "I am not married," she answers at last, in a voice barely more than a whisper. Her eyes flicker to the tent door, before returning to the man's masked face.

Whether Alphros is well-versed in the reading of captured Gondorians or not, Eruphel certainly is, and speaks up, to answer the thought forming in Farielle's mind. "If you were to run through that portal, beyond you would find an entire Army of Umbareans, Near Haradrim, Far Haradrim, most of them Corsairs. They would most definitely notice you. And when I finally found you and brought you back here, you would not be nearly as happy as you are right now. Nor would I." Her eyes flick toward Alphros, her gaze focusing on his lips (as they are the only expressive feature exposed). Eruphel gestures to the platter of meats cheeses and fruits. "You may help yourself," she offers to the girl.

As the Lady of Seaward gives her warning, Alphros neither reacts nor adds to it. Instead, he remains silent and still, almost as if nothing is transpiring. He does wait eagerly for the arrival of the drinks being prepared, however. When he has one in hand, he turns to Farielle and adds: "I assure you, Lady Farielle, should you choose to stay you will find the food to be quite good. I know that those strutting peacocks Thorondur and Arelion may like to pamper their kinsfolk, but that does not mean that noble gastronomy is to be found only in the halls of Edhellond."

Farielle seems to wilt a little, despair flickering through her eyes. Then, with an effort, she straightens again, and wipes the emotion from her face. She takes a piece of cheese, holding it without eating, but Alphros' words break through the blank mask once more; only this time it is anger that sparks in her eyes, not terror. "They are my kinsmen," she says, her voice edged.

The boiled eggs have arrived at last, still steaming in a bowl, which is placed on a low table by one of the attending slaves. Eruphel returns to the cushions, though she chooses the furthest one off to the side. "Please, my Lord, Farielle, take a seat." She waves a hand toward the opposite end of the cushion pile, as far as they might sit from her. A servant arrives with her supercharged coffee, and she accepts it, sipping the tiny cup slowly and carefully.

Alphros sits upon the indicated cushion, though his gaze does not leave Farielle. "They are indeed... If the name you name yourself is truly yours." He glances towards Eruphel, "It is not that I doubt your honesty, Lady Eruphel, but merely that it is not impossible that a captured Gondorian might seek to pose as a scion of higher birth than is truth... In the hopes that they shall be ransomed or treated well." He frowns speculatively, before sipping at his drink. "I shall naturally have a scholar specialising in genealogy interview you and ascertain the truth of your name and your blood claim."

Farielle stares back, lifting her chin a tiny amount. Anger is far better than fear... Though it is very strange to glare at someone who has no eyes. It isn't long before she looks away and sits down, as ordered. Though without moving from where she has stood, so that she seats herself in the exact same position as before. "Why?" she asks - almost demands - the edge in her voice turning brittle. "What do you care of my family? My father /would/ pay you." The cheese is still in her hand, held between fingers and thumb - and entirely forgotten.

"I have considered that myself, my Lord," Eruphel answers Alphros casually, peeling away the shell of the egg in a single string, "which I had also planned to delve into with more...severity, before presenting her to you." She glances at Farielle before taking a bite. "Though I suppose your method is also reliable." Farielle's anger is slightly amusing to Eruphel, but she lets Alphros explain, if anything is to be explained at all.

"Or perhaps your father - if he is a decent, honourable man - would be thrilled to discover that his daughter is the potential future Queen of Gondor," Alphros answers blithely without looking away from Eruphel, at whom he then smiles. "I appreciate your willingness to investigate the quality of your merchanise, my Lady. Of course, since we speak of a noble Lady and not common chattel, I trust that you will not take any offense at my thorough investigation of it... It is not that I distrust you, merely that I have my own requirements, not all of which I expect others to anticipate.

"To start: I should one day hope that my Queen will provide me with an heir. Should she be so wronged or mistreated prior to our marriage that she would not be amenable to the notion of copulation without scratching my eyes out, then she is verily useless to me." He gestures with his cup. "Greatest of Kings though he may have been, I do not think anyone thought fondly of the manner in which Ar-Pharazon took his wife. I should not like to make the same mistake."

Eruphel, though she might have been offended at the implications of the King-Claimant, instead laughs heartily. Once the mirth subsides, she shapes her mouth, as if to offer a retort, but then again chuckles and shakes her head, chuckling. "Haradaic Then again, after some time in my tower's hospitality; after seeing what her fate /could/ be, she might have been so grateful for your gentle nature she would have leapt into your arms." she answers briefly in her own language, then switches to the common tongue. 'But of course, I will bow to your wisdom in the matter.'

Severity. Farielle darts a look at Eruphel. As her anger drains away, fear surges back to take its place, until Alphros starts to talk. And then the girl can do nothing but stare at him. The feeling that she is living through some sort of insane farce grows stronger. At last, she tears her gaze away, dropping it to her hands, folded in her lap. Cautiously, she touches one wrist. The bandages are real. Incomprehensible words wash over her, and she ignores them, as she does the last sentence, which she does understand. Or would, if she could make sense of anything that is happening.

Alphros laughs in answer to Eruphel, and nods once. "Haradaic That is true. Still, it is all for naught if she is not a suitable candidate in the end, though so far the signs are promising," he offers by way of a compliment.

Alphros then looks back to Farielle, noting her confused silence. After a moment, he prompts her with a question: "Have you no thoughts, Lady Farielle?"

Eruphel's eyes flash, should anyone have been looking, at the title thrown in to the girl's name. But she hides it and turns away, and when she looks at the would-be couple, she smiles blandly. She stares at Farielle, who seems not to be processing all of this very well. "My Lord, keep in mind that her situation has changed radically in the last two days. Some thoughts take a while to congeal." She finishes off her tiny cup of coffee.

Farielle accepts her title entirely unconsciously, as if it is her due; looking up as he speaks her name; though this doesn't seem to have helped much with comprehending what is going on. She stares at him, unable to think of which of the thousand things swirling around in her mind to say first, but finally, she blurts out, "You want to - marry /me/?" There is a maze of emotions in her voice, but astonishment seems to be uppermost.

Alphros shrugs slightly at Eruphel's suggestion- as if he does not comprehend himself that anyone could be so confused by the situation. But he looks back at Farielle at her incredulous question. "No, I do not want to marry you... Not yet."

"Haradaic Promising indeed. Fetching, young...did I mention her mother's family is Draud...dreadnaught...Draudgnir? Though, she doesn't seem to be the /brightest/ star in the heavens, does she. I am not sure if you would like to have such slow children by her. Your princely offspring no doubt will need to be fast-witted to keep their heads and their thrones." All of this is spoken in the Southron tongue, as lightly and conversationally as if speaking about the weather above. And then the woman switches to the common tongue.

'What he is saying, child, is that your lineage must be confirmed before he could consider it. Though, while that is happening, you two could perhaps come to know each other, and decide if you /like/ each other.'

Alphros slowly rises to his feet, a rueful smile on his face. "All that is true," he admits in answer to Eruphel. "But it shall have to wait on the morrow. I have much business to attend to... My thanks for this thoughtful gesture, Lady. We shall discuss the transaction further as it progresses." With a nod to Farielle, the King-Claimant turns and departs.

Nearly all of Farielle's energy has been going to keep from thinking about her family, to stop herself spending all her time shaking in the corner and crying, to keep from simply opening her mouth and letting out one vast scream and never stopping. She hasn't much left for comprehension of incomprehensible situations.

Amid all the babble, the fragment of name catches her attention, and she looks at Eruphel questioningly. Until the woman explains just what it is that Alphros does want, and a hint of revulsion flickers swiftly through her eyes. /Like/ him? A Haradrim? She watches Alphros leave, still saying nothing.

Eruphel nods, smiling, and rises as Alphros rises, seeing him to the tent door. Then she returns, standing there and looking down at the young girl of Gondor, considering carefully. After a few moments, she says, "Obviously Lord Alphros does not wish to see you in chains. I will give you one chance. /One/ chance. If you ever attempt to flee," he eyes flit to the tent-flap doorway, "I will have chains placed on you that will require a blacksmith to put on, and take off. Right now, you are in the best position a woman of Gondor could ever dream or hope for in Harad. Do not endanger your position with foolish notions until you understand fully your situation." she warns.

Farielle's eyes follow Eruphel's to the tent door, lingering there a long moment. Then she looks away in defeat, and nods, looking down at her hands.

Nodding in satisfaction, Eruphel sits back at her former place on the cushions. "That's good. I will have a proper cot brought in for you. Good clothing will likely need to wait till we get to Umbar. If you require something, ask Hayya. Now, eat. You cannot think properly without some food in you, and you'll be wanting your strength back, I suspect."

Umbar. Her head still bowed, Farielle closes her eyes in despair. After a minute, she opens them and reaches rather blindly for the tray; her hand closing about a piece of meat, which she takes a small bite of, and then holds - forgotten, maybe, like the cheese she still has. A long while later, she finishes them both.


	5. Chapter 5

_'The Gondorians are driven out...' Those words echoed over and over in Farielle's mind until she wanted to scream. 'Where is she to run?' They were gone. No one had come for her. If this man - this king - but how could he be king? He was a Haradrim! And the line of kings was broken; there was only the Steward now. If she was who she said she was, she would be married to him. Haradrim. Pretender. Liar. Servant of the Enemy. _

_Marriage - and after, there would be children... the thought of it filled her with sick horror. Unbidden, her mother's voice spoke in her memory: 'You are a scion of a great lineage, Farielle. You must always comport yourself worthily of those whose blood runs in yours. Even in your marriage...' Her mother had hesitated, then smiled and patted the young girl's cheek gently. 'But do not fear. Your father will choose wisely and kindly, and your husband will be a great and honorable man. Only remember, it was the daughter of Mirethlas herself, the elven maid, who married your forefather, and thus her blood is yours. Never bring shame to her memory.'_

_She would not marry him. She would not! But what could she do? If they wouldn't even consider ransom; if her people were gone from these shores, leaving her behind.. Farielle bit her lip, sitting on the cot Hayya had wrestled into place at Lady Eruphel's orders. She thought of her brothers, of her parents. What would Eruiglas do? she wondered - but she knew. She'd been very young, but she still remembered the day her oldest brother, newly knighted, had stormed home from Dol Amroth. She'd been playing in a corner near the fireplace when he and Father had come into the room, and she'd crept close to listen. Eruiglas had scowled at her when Father took her on his lap. 'She's too young!' he grumped, but then he rumpled her hair and she'd known she could stay._

_Her brother, oldest, stiff with honor, so proud of his heritage, so aghast at discovering a brother knight in some lapse of honor. She idolized him. There was no question what he would do, caught in the trap she was in. And Gwaithmir, who'd memorized all the songs about elves before he was even sent to school and was so noble he told the cook in a fit of remorse that they'd snuck his apple tarts before they were even cool! And even Lomin who'd played with her and studied with her and had always been fiercely intent on out-Knighting Eruiglas. _

_She set her shoulders. Perhaps they would never know, but she too would be as valiant as her brothers. She would be worthy of her name. _

It was hot earlier, but now an evening wind sweeps in with the tide, damp and lukewarm and curling the smoke above the Haradrim cook-fires. The camps sprawl among rubble, bloodstained many of them, with guards and bristling weapons aplenty.

Nisrin stalks quietly among the guards, waving away questions with a merry, disarming smile. She carries a basket and now approaches the tent of Eruphel, Lady Seaward.

Farielle is where she has been all the time. Inside the tent. Once, she dared so far as to look out the doorflap, but no farther. The guards at the doorway were more than enough to discourage any further exploration - if the throngs of dark-skinned people (among whom she would stand out like a beacon on a hill) hadn't already done the trick. And now she sits on the cot that Eruphel has given her at last, after that man had come to look at her, and does nothing. There is nothing to do.

"Let me in," begs a girl's voice playfully, quite close to the tent-flap. "I have dinner?"

There is a voice outside, and Farielle glances towards the doorway then away. Then a low chuckle, and one of the guardsmen says something in reply, and then sunlight streams in as the tent door is held open.

The slim, dark form of a young woman enters, perhaps a few years younger and a head shorter than the Gondorian lady. There is a lively bounce to her step as she tip-toes about the various compartments of Eruphel's lodgings, coming at last to stand a stone's throw from the cot.

"Good day," she says politely to Farielle, her Westron academic and ill-practiced, a catlike smile curving on her lips. "I have brought dinner, if you are hungry."

Farielle has been studying her hands, paying no attention to the newcomer - clearly, it is nothing that will concern her. Surprise flashes across her face as the person stops in front of her. She looks up, her expression clearly asking if the girl before her means her. Clearing her throat, she says cautiously, "Yes. Thank you." Her voice sounds rough and unpracticed, as if she hasn't been talking much recently. A pause and bluntly, "Why?"

The Haradrim girl pauses, setting the basket carefully on the ground. "Because I am not hungry and you may be, and I don't like goat-stew," Nisrin says, taking a step closer. She crosses her arms, peering at the other woman. Her smile toys with some thought or another, though cruelty does not permeate it: "And there were rumors. I wanted to see the Northern woman who hitched up her skirts and marched over to Caldur of Farside, for the sake of some sweetheart or something..."

Goat-stew. Farielle wrinkles up her nose, but says again, politely, "Thank you. It was a kind thought." Her stomach growls, but she doesn't reach for the basket. At the girl's last words, something like anger or bitterness stiffens her face - and she doesn't try to mask it, but twitches feet and hands to show the bandages around her ankles and wrists. "I did not choose to come here," she says flatly.

Nisrin grins, "I know. So it is true then: your men command you, and you go. It is a sad life you must have led in your camp: you will do better in ours." The girl cants her head. "This is your first time meeting our people? I have never seen a lady of the North before."

Anger flashes in Farielle's blue-grey eyes. "/My/ people tried to rescue me. It was yours who brought me here, bound and against my will." She shuts her mouth into a thin, tight line, but opens it again to say fiercely, "I will not! What life is this to desire, shut into this tent to be sold off to whoever comes along, never to see my family again, and no choice even in what I am given to eat?" She doesn't answer Nisrin's question, turning her head aside to hide a sudden up-welling of grief as painful as if someone has hit her in the stomach.

Nisrin half-rises. "I did not mean to twist the knife," she says calmly, her features settling back into a decidedly uncurious, staid demeanor. Then, awkwardly, "Is there anything else I can bring you?"

Farielle is silent, wrestling her emotions down until she can speak composedly again. "A knife," she mutters, then gives Nisrin a twisted, almost-smile, saying dully, "There is nothing you can give me that I want."

"Your life should be sufficient." comes a man's voice from the tent flap as another occupant of Eruphel's tent returns to it. Eron's armor is rent, and blood splattered. In fact, the chain seems more patch than origional steel. Eron looks from the captured Gondorian to his sister. "Behaving?"

"Freedom?" asks Nisrin quietly. "That is a price too high, I fear." She whirls, shrinking back reflexively from the tall armored man, before standing and squaring her position before the Gondorian's cot. "We are well," she says, continuing in Westron, the quaver of defensiveness in her tone. "Were you hurt, brother?"

The Gondorian woman is silent where she sits on the cot, lifting her chin a little and looking back at Eron. The stew in the basket at her feet is still fragrant, though it is cooling swiftly, uneaten like this.

Eron nods curtly to Nisrin. "I am glad you are well, sister. This one, I'll as soon keel-haul as converse with. It's like speaking with one without wits I'd imagine. I hope she is worth our trouble." Eron moves to set his armaments down. "I'm fine. No Gondorian steel found anything vital. Though my armor will need replacing once we reach home."

"As expected," Nisrin murmurs, her expression hidden by dark curls. She gestures to Farielle, saying, "There is nothing of import. I had brought dinner, and assumed neither Hayya nor Lady Seaward were present. May I linger?"

The insults have no effect, sinking like stones into water and vanishing without a trace of any response. Farielle's blue-grey eyes don't flicker, her pale face doesn't flush. She does glance down, almost automatically, at the basket as Nisrin mentions it.

"If you wish." Eron says dismissively. He's not the warm, cuddly kind of brother these days. Life is different outside of Umbar. He turns his attention onto the prisoner, but says nothing for a time. "If she eats, she eats, if she doesn't it will be what it will be. Should negotiations turn sour, I'll have Eruphel give her to me to appease The Eye."

Nisrin perches by the cot, rocking back and forth. At Eron's words she stiffens, sparing Farielle an almost pitying, protective glance. "She is weakened, brother. Surely there are robust Gondorian soldiers aplenty that would better slake His thirst?" she asks casually.

Something flashes in Farielle's eyes at the mention of her people's long Enemy, but it is gone again, equally swiftly. It is Nisrin's words, meant to spare her, that bring anger to burn once again. But still she remains silent and unmoving.

Eron is ever watchful. A match easily for Rangers or Knights of Gondor, as has been proven this endeavor. "There is fight in this one, not weakness. And you'd do best not to question my opinions in regards to a suitable gift for the Dark Lord. You forget who I served under for nearly as long as you've lived, sister."

"I know well enough," hisses Nisrin, slipping suddenly into the swift tongue of her homeland. She stands, regarding her brother coldly. "But she is not yours. Have you no pity for the girl? While you were off killing things in the East, your compassion died as well." The girl pauses near the tent-flap. "I am sailing home on the Arambodh, I would think. A good day to you, brother," she says blandly in Westron.

Farielle's gaze darts to Eron and drops away, and she bends her head, drooping a little, subtly, as if she is trying not to let it show. Nisrin starts to leave, but the Gondorian doesn't look up from watching her hands where they are folded in her lap.

If Eron is at all offended by his sister's outburst, there is no outward signs of it. Which could be a bad thing. "Sail home with your precious Yildirim, if you will. In fact, I'll have your belongings moved to Farside Tower once we arrive back in Umbar, if that is your wish." Eron's calm tone offers as much insult as Nisrin's. For now Farielle is ignored.

"That is very giving of you, Lord Eron, though I doubt Farside could match Seaward's accommodations for Lady Nisrin," comes Yildirim's voice as he steps also into the tent, in front of Nisrin, a toothy grin bright upon his face. It has been sometime since he has looked fresh, cleaned and rested, but today is so. He spares a glance beyond Nisrin towards the prisoner, offering a friendly, if absurd, wave, "And a good day to you as well, Lady." For Nisrin he but holds a smile, no words.

"I am sorely tempted," replies Nisrin in a low hiss. But now another enters, and the girl shuffles back towards Farielle's cot, quiet but darting glances towards Eron, tensed much like a threatened cat.

Farielle looks up as someone else comes in, and is startled for the umpteenth time that day by Yildirim's friendly greeting to her. The wary, tense expression slips a little and a small, puzzled frown draws her fine, dark eyebrows together. Her gaze goes between the three Haradrim, watching the interplay between them, though her eyes wince away from Eron - perhaps she is more afraid of him now.

"Since when is the tent of Lady and Lord Seaward open to whomever wishes to enter unanounced?" Eron says in Yildirim's direction. His tone is annoyed, but not overly incensed. "That which I speak to my sister is my own. And she seems quite taken with you and your lot. Which leads me to question her loyalty, to both Tower AND House." Eron crosses his arms over his chest. Either war has dulled his sense of tact, or he isn't ready to stop fighting yet.

"Ah." Yildirim hesitates a moment, eyes moving from Nisrin, to Farielle and then to Eron. "Should I return later then with the casualty report Farside has thus far collected for Seaward?" and in deed, there is a rolled parchment in his hand.

Nisrin glowers. "I have sworn nothing, Eron."

"Yet you agreed to sail on a Farside ship as a Seaward Envoy. Our house, and everyone in it, is Seaward. Everyone but the pupils in our walls. You included, as a noble lady of Hashikh. But if you feel you've sworn nothing, I'll have the Lady Seaward hear over it. I'll not be bogged down in this politicking, and seeing my own sister debase herself thus." Eron then turns his attention to Yildirim. "As for your report. I understand it to be of great import. Your welcome here is not questioned, simply your unannounced entry. What if Eruphel was here, and was dressed inappropriately? An announcement of your arrival is all I had wished."

The Gondorian woman's attention focuses suddenly, intently, on the newcomer at the mention of casualty reports. Absently, she rubs at one of the bandages around her wrists.

Yildirim motions over his shoulders, "Should the guards not then slow my entry? Ah, it is no bother, Lord Eron. Of course, you are correct." Seeking various diversions, he offers both the rolled paper and a question, "How is the Lady? She is, thus far, the only woman among the prisoners. Have you a chance to speak to her much? She seems a woman of quality."

Farielle bows her head to hide her expression, which is something of a smirk at Yildirim's question; considering what Eron has just said about his desire to talk to her.

Nisrin inclines her head, her lips tight. "I understand, brother." She glances over to the Gondorian lady, saying nothing but observing intently.

"I'm not very adept at speaking with the spoils of war. Eruphel has people for that I would imagine. My understanding is she's to be kept in good care, else she'd not be bound where -I- must sleep." Eron waves his hands dismissively, as if to push the awkward conversations from before out, so those within can speak as kin and comrades.

"May I?" Yildirim questions, with a slight motion towards the prisoner.

Eron shrugs and motions for Yildirim to do as he pleases, as he moves to pour himself a glass of wine from a nearby decanter, unrolling the paper and bending over it.

Passing Nisrin, Yildirim takes the chance offered and squats before Farielle. He looks her over briefly, some attention paid to the bandages, "I am Yildirim an Kaplan, Corsair for Farside Tower."

The young man appears suddenly in Farielle's field of vision, and she looks at him. Her expression is a curious blend of dispassion and resolution. After a moment, she says, "I am Farielle Girithlin. You will forgive me if I do not say I am pleased to meet you."

Nisrin smiles, if only for a moment, at Yildirim. She turns on her heel to leave. "Eat," she says to the lady, more coaxing than commanding, and ducks back under the tent-flap.

A brief glance for Nisrin as she takes a hurried leave and then Yildirim looks back to Farielle, "Lady Girithlin. I have not met one of your family. Though I have read something of it. From Belfalas, yes?"

Yildirim then widens his smile, "Do not worry about hurting my feelings. I have been both prisoner and guest of your people and know the awkwardness found therein." The young man's lips twist in contemplation, "You are... sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Near there," Farielle says, cautiously. She looks away at the mention of her family, blinking. But her gaze flies back to his at his next comment, her eyes widening and suddenly uncertain. "Nineteen," she whispers.

"And what do you do?" comes the Corsair's next question.

"Do?" Farielle asks, confused. She looks down at the cot. "Sit here, mostly. Or did you mean be-before." Her voice falters the smallest amount.

"You came along with a small army of Gondorians to rescue the Order of the Swan from certain destruction. Why would they bring you?" Yildirim asks again.

"Oh. I came to help the healers. I do not know much about it, but Mother said it would be good for me to learn a little. For balance." This she says in an expressionless voice, looking down again so that he can't see her eyes. It seems for a minute, she will say something more, but then she doesn't.

"Your mother sent you to Caldur?" he says, incredulously. He sniffs, either amused or impressed by this statement. "I suspect the next trip offered to you she will be more hesitant." He glances at Eron, disposed with his report, and whispers, "Have you been tortured? Beaten? Abused?"

"She - " Farielle's voice breaks, and she stops, her hands closing into fists and the fingernails digging into her palms. After a few minutes, when she has control of herself again, she says, "She sent me to Dol Amroth, to work with the healers. They packed up and came to Caldur, and - and I came with them. My brother was in the Keep."

At his whispered question, she looks up, her eyes confused again. Then she shakes her head, and in an equally quiet whisper says, "No. The .. the lady here said she would did I try to run away - but no one has touched me. Only - " she falters again, then finishes resolutely. "Only the men who - who took me. From the ropes." She lifts a wrist an inch from her lap and lets it fall back again. There is a pause and then she asks, "Why do you care?"

"Do not be mistaken, my Lady Farielle," Yildirim whispers again, surprisingly having little trouble with her name, "I am the snake in this matter, the friendly face that calms and comforts you. Certainly not to be trusted."

"But, I am Farside and you are held by Seaward and there is a difference there. For Gondor, we are the same, but there are many differences between us and you are well to learn them now that you are in Umbar. I am your enemy, no doubt, perhaps even if your brother was slain it was by my hand. But as you are now, your choice of what you may call friend is a limited and unsatisfying thing. In circumstances such as these, perhaps that is what I am to you now."

Farielle listens, paying attention, learning what he tells her - but oddly, there is an air of indifference. As if it doesn't really matter. At the end, she nods and asks, slightly curious, "What is Farside? Is it a House?" The basket with now-cold stew in it still sits at her feet, untouched.

He laughs, spoiling whatever secrecy there may be between them now. "I am sorry, but that was unexpected. Allow the lessons in Haradrim society to fall to me. Certainly, few others shall give them. Oh," he adds, offhandly, "I too am nineteen. In the late summer."

"Umbar is ruled by five Towers, Farside, Seaward, Desert, Black and," a pause, "The Dark Citadel. Each has a Lord, or Lady, that rules absolute for that Tower. The rule of the city is by that counsel of five. Outside of Umbar, things are less formal. There are fiefs, like Caldur here, ruled by a tower or family. Tribes further out have their lands. But the power of Harad is found in Umbar and with those five."

His laughter brings an actual smile to Farielle's face. Faint and fleeting, but there. She listens much as before, with attention and some interest, but detached. As if she learns from inclination and habit, but doesn't expect the information to be important in her life. "I see." And after a moment, offered in return, "My birth day is in the spring."

Her indifference is noted and Yildirim's brow creases, "Be wary, lady. I know little of your fate. Normally, prisoners are ransomed back to their families, a price paid for a life. But you are a prize that has cost Seaward much. For every man of Gondor that lies dead on that field, I have counted five of the south. A good showing for Gondor that bodes ill for you. You have become a very expensive prize. What knowledge I am willing to impart to you could have very measurable effects on how," again he hesitates, "Comfortable your stay can be. Take it as not a threat, for you are not my prisoner, but as fact, snake or no, and heed it as such."

"I am grateful for your ... gift," Farielle says, sincerely. "I am listening." To prove it, she repeats back to him what he has told her. "I said that my father would pay any ransom," she says, "but I do not think anyone listened." She hesitates, then says slowly, "A man came. To - to look at me." She shudders all over, convulsively.

"Oh? Tell me of him," Yildirim requests.

"He wore a cloth over his face," Farielle says. "I do not remember his name. I - I was distracted." Her eyes are shadowed, remembering the fog of terror and bewilderment that covered everything. Then some other random bit of information comes to mind, and she tells the Haradrim that also. "He said, if I chose to stay, the food would be good. As if I have any choices." The words are bitter, but oddly, her voice is not.

"A cloth over his face," Yildirim repeats, fingers itching at his chin, "If you are fair and even with that man, he shall be so with you. If you are not, he shall not. There are far worst men to fear," his eyes dancing briefly towards Eron and his attentions.

"You know him?" Farielle asks, but not as if she expects an answer. She is silent, her eyes following his to Eron. "I do not want to be sold like - like a cow to the highest bidder," she says plaintively, but with a self-mocking quirk to her mouth that says she knows very well that what she wants is no longer of any importance to anyone. She shivers again. Her words may be light, but the fear behind them is real.

"There are few that can be described such, so I say I think I know that man. If you hear the mew of cats nearby when he is, he is the same." Yildirim continues, "I rather you not be sold either. But, you are in Seaward's care and there are differences."

"For now, is there word you would send to Gondor?"

For the first time, Farielle shows a real emotion - not simply something flitting over the surface of her face and eyes. Astonishment, and a kind of terrible hope. It is extinguished in the next moment, forcibly. Her eyes hold his for a long minute, then drop to her hands once more. When she speaks, her voice is very controlled - both resigned and resolute. "I do not wish my family ignorant of my fate."

"Easy enough. I have a ship and the means to sail her. I shall, upon gathering Lady Seaward's permission, deliver a note to a Gondorian patrol that Lady Farielle lives. Naught more?" he questions once again.

Farielle closes her eyes and draws in a long slow breath. She lets it out again. "When?" she asks him. There is a strange urgency in her voice, and her hands are clenched again.

After a moment, she adds, her voice very low, "Tell them... my choices were my own. That I ask them not - not to seek retribution." Quieter still. "Tell them that I love them." She doesn't look at him again, her face turned down and her eyes hidden.

"It shall be done," Yildirim concludes adding but, "On the morrow if I am able." He stands, some pity in his eye for the young woman. He walks away, parting the flap then stops and looks back, "Things are hard for you, but harder for the dead, no?" The flap slaps shut behind him and he is gone.

Surely that cannot be dismay that crosses her face at his answer. But all she says is, "Thank you." And when he is gone: "Easier, I think," Farielle says under her breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, even if they were standing right beside her.


	6. Chapter 6

_People came and went in the tent. Not many. It was quiet mostly. Servants, Farielle thought they must be, for they straightened things or delivered things or took them away again. Once someone brought her a plate of food and refilled the water jug by her bed. She ate a little. No one spoke to her, though most of them turned to stare at her at least once - sometimes with hatred, sometimes with scorn. Once or twice with pity. _

_A man lifted the tent-flap and slipped outside. She heard his voice, bantering by the tone, and the guards replies. They laughed, and then it was quiet again. Very quiet. Farielle sat up and looked around. There was no one here. She darted a glance at the tent door, then as quietly as she could, she stood up. Drawing in a quivering breath, she padded across to where Hayya slept and knelt beside his bed to feel under it. _

_Disappointment, as bitter as salt, filled her mouth. He must have moved it. Or perhaps he kept it with him. She stood up, looking around the tent; then hurried towards the table. Perhaps ... with delicate fingers, she tapped the papers spread over it. Nothing. _

_Something scratched at the tent door, and she jumped, staring at it with wide eyes. But no one came in, and she tried to calm her breathing. Where else might a knife be kept? Her gaze stopped on the curtain that divided the Lord and Lady's sleeping area from the rest. Yes, of course. There, if anywhere. She took a step towards it, swallowing hard. If someone came in - the casual contempt in Eron's eyes, the threat in Eruphel's - Farielle took a deep breath and walked swiftly towards the curtain._

_Someone coughed outside, then spoke to the guards. Farielle turned and almost ran towards her cot as they replied. A shaft of hot sunlight made a triangle on the floor as the tent flap was opened. She had just enough time to plunk her self down on the floor by the water jug before Hayya came in. He looked at her, but didn't stop or speak._

_Farielle closed her eyes in relief. He hadn't seen. 'But now what?' she wondered. 'I have no poison, I can't get a knife.' She didn't even bother looking up at the billowing tent roof as she thought mordantly, 'I certainly can't hang myself!' _

_Water slopped over the mug rim, wetting her hand, and she stilled, looking down at it. 'Of course. If I can just be strong for long enough. No one pays much attention to me, if I lie quietly, maybe they will get used to seeing me like that, so that when...' But her thoughts shied away from that. Death from thirst was a terrible thing. She had seen a man once... 'Mother,' she thought desperately, 'Help me!' _

_She sat on the bed, holding the mug, and looked fleetingly at Hayya. He was busy with something; his back turned towards her. Deliberately, she poured the water on the ground behind her cot, and laid down._

The sun is hot. It's always hot here, Farielle thinks, but today, the sun seems to be beating malevolently down on the tent roof, burning through it in a huge throbbing ball. She has been lying on the cot, as per usual, but now she lifts a hand to her head, shaking it slightly, and rolls onto her back. She stares unseeingly at the cushions and curtains and pieces of furniture that make up the interior of the tent, and tries to swallow. It hurts.

Quiet steps, and the shift and clink of iron spears and staffs. "I have come to bring food for the lady prisoner," says Nisrin in Westron, a little irritated.

A voice... one she recognizes, speaking Common. Farielle stirs, but in the end, doesn't move.

The dark form of the younger woman slips through the tent-flap. Nisrin casts cautious glances about, ensuring that her brother is appropriately absent, then smiles wanly at the lady. "You do not enjoy the Southern noon," she murmurs.

Farielle blinks. Then slowly, she pushes herself upright, swaying a little as if she is dizzy. "No," she says, and moves her mouth a little. "It is so very hot," she adds after a minute. A pause. Then she smiles back at Nisrin.

"I can get you some more water," offers the girl haltingly, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her corsair's vest - it seems she has come without purpose, emptyhanded and seeking no Lady or Lord Husband Seaward. "You do not look well - that is, worse than yesterday," she observes.

Farielle's pale skin is somehow even whiter, and her actions are slow and uncertain. After a moment, she shakes her head, then says, after that, "Thank you. I am given plenty of water." She swallows again. After another minute, perhaps seeking to distract the younger girl, she asks, "Your name... is Nisrin?"

"Nisrin Hashikh," affirms the girl, eyes resting on an ewer lying by the cot, then flicking back up to the pale lady. "My brother is Eron. But we are not very close; he is more of a guardian. You said you had a brother in Caldur Keep," Nisrin prompts carefully.

"Nisrin Hashikh," Farielle repeats carefully. She doesn't mangle the name too badly. After a minute or two of silence, she nods. "Yes. Two." There is a pause while she works her mouth a little to find some saliva to keep talking with. "I hope that they are safe, but I do not know." There is something desolate in the simple words - though she does not say so, it is evident there is a deep bond between the siblings.

"What are their names?" asks Nisrin almost shyly, ensuring first that none of her family is present. "I think you shall see them again," she adds encouragingly, "if after a long time. When Lord Alphros takes what he has claimed..."

A shudder runs through Farielle's body, though she can't possibly be cold, and she looks away. "Lominzil," she replies, her voice suddenly dull. "And Eruiglas." But now that she has made peace with the fact of never seeing her family again, it is a comfort to think of them, and slowly, almost dreamily, she goes on. "Eruiglas is much older than I, but Lomin is only a year older. He looks like me, a little. But taller, of course." A pause. Her voice sounds a little hoarse. "When we were little, we did everything together; even taking harp lessons. I miss him."

"I do not think he was taken," says Nisrin after a pause, regarding the Gondorian woman carefully. "But it was very difficult fighting in the streets." The Haradrim girl crosses to the ewer, pouring herself a cup. "The harp?" she asks - curiosity without malice. "What do the noblewomen of Gondor learn?"

Farielle's gaze fixates on the water as it gurgles out of the urn into Nisrin's cup. She tears her eyes away, letting them drift shut as if she is thinking. "Oh, many things," she says slowly. "It depends. Some. On what house you are of. We... we learned music and painting and how to make tapestries, and how to ride and to hunt. I was learning to look after our finances, when... when Mother said I should go to learn a little of healing."

"But not to fight," notes Nisrin absently, pouring another cup and offering it to Farielle. "I had wondered why there were no women among the ranks."

The Gondorian woman hesitates a moment, then takes the cup, holding it idly. "Why would I want to fight?" she asks, surprised into a little more alertness.

"Why would you not?" answers Nisrin, equally surprised. She crosses her legs and takes a sip of water. "I know little of your people, save their actions upon the battlefield. But at times even the women must fight, or die. It would be a useful skill, even if you were to be a healer."

"Only when your people attack," Farielle replies in a low voice whose bitterness seems to surprise even her. But she doesn't apologize. Her breathing is a little faster, a little shallower; maybe not enough to notice. She shuts her eyes again, rubbing at her face with her empty hand.

"Your Knight-Captain invaded our land first," says Nisrin, clenching her jaw. "They killed my mentor, too. He taught me to play the lute." Taking a deep breath, she sits back and looks away. "That was ignoble of me. I am sorry," the girl ventures.

"Imrakhor is a fool, if not a madman," Farielle says wearily, dropping her hand to her lap. "But I spoke.. not only of now. But in the past. Long years. Always fighting. There are no battles in Gondor, save with your people, and ..." But she doesn't finish that sentence. A long pause. "You play the lute? Would - would you play for me?" Her tongue seems thick, though not enough to make her slur her words. Not yet.

"And the ..." Nisrin shivers for a moment, glancing away. "Ah, the lute! Do you play it too? Sing with me? Dance? I will play for you if it will help with the heat," she says with forced cheerfulness. "It would not do for you to collapse from sun-sickness. After all, you might be a Queen!" Allowing the other lady a small smile, the girl ducks out of the tent, later to return with the promised instrument.

"I do not think I can dance just now," Farielle says carefully. She makes her smile rueful, as if laughing at the frailties of a body accustomed to coolness and damp. "But I would like it if you played. If it will not disturb anyone." She sets the cup of water down so as not to spill it, and then lies back on the cot again, letting her eyes drift shut to the gentle notes of the music.


	7. Chapter 7

_The day has passed, slowly, since Nisrin left. Farielle was all but overwhelmed by visions of water - water spilling down the waterfall outside their house, water gurgling in the brook, water lapping at the shores of the sea, water splashing grey and cool on the pond on rainy winter days, the water in the jug just beside her bed. It was all she could do not to reach over and pour the contents of that jug down her throat. She lay in bed and concentrated with all her strength on something else. Anything else. _

_She drifted, letting the small sounds of the tent wash in and out of awareness. It was so hot. The sun here must be hotter than the sun at home. Someone laughed, and she was swept into a sudden memory. She'd been 10 maybe, or 11. Lomin had been away to Dol Amroth - the first time they'd ever been apart for more than a few days. But he was to be home any day now, and she had decided to go up the road a little ways to meet him. The sun had been hot then, too._

Spring is come, and everything is rejoicing - the fields have never been greener, the sky never bluer. The sun shines brightly over rippling brooks and wind-blown trees - and one young girl, about 11, who has strewn her hair with flowers and is hanging over a stone fence watching the road.

A small cloud of dust rises down the road, stamped by swift and slender feet. It is Lominzil, just one year older, blue-eyed, wild-haired, and his sister's twin, were he not pink and breathless from running. Indeed, his sprint carries him past the girl...

"Lomin, Lomin!" Farielle shrieks, jumping down and running through the gate after him. Her flowers slip cockeyed on her head, until they are hanging over one ear; her hair is unbraiding itself.

Lominzil screeches to a halt and promptly droops, panting as his thick dark hair slips damply into his eyes: he is long overdue for a haircut. "Fari!" he emits excitedly, then frowns and reaches for the knapsack on his back. It is open.

"Oh," he murmurs, trotting back down the road and away from her, "I dropped my book."

"You are /still/ always dropping things!" she scolds him, smiling hugely. She turns and skips along the road beside him. "What book is it? Did you learn lots and lots? Remember, you promised to tell me /everything/!"

Lominzil picks up the book, child-sized but quite old and dusty, and stuffs it back into his knapsack. "Sir Aramore says I am clumsy as an ox," sighs he, scuffing his boot. "It is about history! About Elves and Men and the West. I would tell you, but Gwaithmir tells better stories."

Farielle stops as the flower crown threatens to loose hold on her head entirely, and readjusts it, frowning with concentration. "You're not clumsy," she says heatedly, then her eyes grow wide. "Elves? Our elves or other ones?" She giggles, tucking her hand into his arm. "I know he does, but I want you to tell it. I will make Gwaithmir tell me other stories."

"Other Elves," decides Lominzil firmly. "There was one called Nolfingol, and his brother made a star. The brother also invented tengwar! But Golfinnol was the one who fought in single combat with the Foe." He takes Farielle's arm, planting a brotherly kiss on the top of her head. "Gwaithmir is going to run out of stories someday!"

"He /made/ a star?" Farielle sounds awed. She walks along beside him, skipping a step now and then. "I didn't know even the elves could do /that/!" Single combat with the Foe doesn't seem to interest her very much as she chatters on. "I have made you a present. To say 'welcome home'. But it is a surprise, and I'm not telling you what it is. Not until after supper! And, Lomin, guess what! The old mare had a foal! Even papa was surprised. He laughed and said he didn't know old Barahun had it in him - he must have jumped the fence."

"I am hungry already," complains Lominzil, his stomach growling like a wolf. "A foal, you say?" he replies, his eyes round as saucers. "Goodness! If it is Barahun's child, it will have a bumpy gait! And then you will fall if you are not careful - like I did in Dol Amroth," he adds, tugging his sleeve up to show, proudly, a fading scar. "I broke my arm."

"Come on then!" Farielle tugs at his arm. "Mother made ... but that is a surprise too!" She hasn't stopped smiling since she's seen him - or possibly since she woke up that morning - or quite possibly since the foal was born last week. Or maybe since she was born. But she stops in sheer shock and stares at his arm. "You /broke/ it! Lominzil, what were you /doing/?" A sniff and a toss of her hair. "I will not fall off. Is it all healed? It doesn't hurt anymore does it? No one even /told/ me!" She sounds very aggrieved by this last failing.

"I was sparring with another Page," recalls the boy, waving his arm officiously, "and nearly beat him down! But then he swung and I caught it the wrong way. It was sticking out like this." Lominzil demonstrates with great gusto. "The healers say that it will be fine before I become a Squire."

Farielle's eyes are entirely round as her brother demonstrates how his arm looked. "Didn't it hurt?" she asks, awed, then sighs enviously. "You're so brave. I have never broken anything, and I don't want to either!"

"Not very much!" says Lominzil confidently, beaming down at his sister. "Well, yes. Somewhat. Very much so. But I don't remember what happened after that," he admits. "Only that I wasn't allowed to go outside, and had to read many many books in bed. And write with the left hand - my 'r's will never be the same."

"I bet you were bored," Farielle says wisely. Then she giggles. "Stuck inside reading! Poor Lomin! It is too bad Gwaithmir wasn't there, he likes doing that."

"Yes, but he would never break an arm," Lominzil points out. He adjusts his knapsack and fluffs his hair back out of his face. "Is Gwaithmir well? Eruiglas sends his love from Dol Amroth, of course. He is terribly busy, being a New Knight and all."

Horse hooves on ancient pavers announces the arrival of another to the scene. 'Round one of the old Elven dwellings comes a tall chestnut hunter, simply saddled, though the rings of her bridle bear the star of the Girithlin. Her rider is a comely young man, his pale complexion suffused with the glow of joy so often seen on the faces of the young in spring. The man's tunic is rolled up behind him, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. A small harp is attached to the back of his saddle, where most would carry saddle bags. His free hand, resting on his knee, carries a bouquet of wildflowers.

"Oh yes," she answers sunnily. "He is making up songs again. I think papa..." The sound of hooves brings her head around. "Well, you can see for yourself."

Lominzil spins about, still slightly pink from his sprint. "Oh," he says, tilting his head quizzically. "The air in Minas Tirith must have gotten to him! Are those flowers?"

Bringing his horse to a stop, Gwaithmir raises said flowers as though surprised, "Why, so they are, Master Observant! Your knight must be every day praising your attention to details." Lightly dismounting, Gwaithmir ruffles Lominzil's hair. To Farielle, however, he bows and presents the flowers, "For you, my lady." He gives his little sister a smile that could melt stone.

Farielle turns pink. And more unusually, silent. Eyes sparkling with delight, she curtsies very carefully, and takes the flowers. "Thank you, kind sir," she says gravely. And the dam is broken. "They're for me!" she tells Lomin loftily. "Men are allowed to carry flowers when they are giving them to Ladies! Gwaithmir, Lomin is home!"

"Hello, Brother! He makes me read books and calls me an ox," mutters Lominzil, his hair draping floppily over his face. To Farielle he looks adoringly, scrubbing his grimy hands on his trousers. "I haven't any flowers," he admits regretfully.

Gwaithmir grins at Farielle's enthusiasm, carrying that smile over to Lominzil. "Why this hatred of books, Lomin? They are lovely things. Filled with stories about brave knights, hopeless quests, and beautiful ladies! Being a Knight is more than waving a sword about. You must learn all the courtly graces, too, like Eruiglas. Perhaps I could lend you some of my clothes, a few books, and my harp. We may make a lord of you, yet!" There is a teasing air to his tone, and he ends his suggesting by tickling Farielle's ribs.

"Mmm?" Farielle looks up from admiring her bouquet, clearly imagining she is indeed a great lady. "Oh. Don't be silly, Lomin. You brought you. That's just as good." She looks worriedly up at Gwaithmir - she wasn't insulting his gift, truly! - and then writhes and gasps with unwilling laughter and bats at his hands. "Stop it, stop it!" She darts away from him, hiding behind Lominzil.

"Next time I will bring you flowers," decides Lominzil. He scowls most fiercely and, arms akimbo, plants his scuffed boots firmly before Gwaithmir, squinting up at him. "Stay thy hand, most fearsome villain! For I would not have thee harm the fair lady so!" The effect is somewhat spoiled by his voice, which breaks in the middle.

Taken momentarily off-guard (or perhaps trying not to laugh at Lomin's untimely squeaking), Gwaithmir blinks at his younger brother. And then he draws himself up to full height, "Out of my way, sir Knight! The lady is mine, as just reward for my victory in the...the...harping contest, and I will claim her!" He bends down quickly to pluck up a weaponly twig, which he holds offensively at Lomin.

Farielle giggles. Raising her voice to a higher pitch, she says, "Oh mine brave champion, I should- shouldst give thee a favor!" Holding her bouquet in one hand, she tries to untie her sole remaining hair ribbon with the other - finally managing it after much crossing of eyes and sticking out of tongues. "There," she says triumphantly, draping it over Lominzil's shoulder. "I bestoweth this upon thee, brave sir knight. May - Mayest thou be victorious!"

Patting the ribbon, Lominzil looks over at Farielle and beams reassuringly, scooping up a twig of his own. "Gracious lady, have no fear!" And he darts towards Gwaithmir's knees with a child's agility, poking at the booted shin.

Gwaithmir gives a cry of agony, bending his knee up so that he is now one-legged. "Aaagh! 'Tis only a scratch!" He pokes his stick at Lominzil, ineffectual little jabs that are not meant to land, meanwhile hopping about on his one foot with surprising agility. "Take that, wretch! And that, and that, and that..." The art of the bards has allowed him to twist his whole countenance into one of menace and supreme arrogance - a literary villain, to be sure.

"Yield, sirrah, and thou mayest yet live!" Lominzil whacks the whippy stick about, but it finds a rocks and breaks near his hand! Not to be found at a loss, the boy - a slender Girithlin, but well-fed and partly trained - yells fiercely and throws himself bodily at the bigger form of his brother.

Gwaithmir gives a crow of triumph at Lominzil's broken stick. A crow that soon turns into a cry of frustration. One slender Girithlin hitting another, and though Gwaithmir has the advantage of size and height, he is also short one foot. He goes tumbling to the ground, landing hard enough that an involuntary 'oof!' is drawn from him. He pokes at Lominzil's shoulder with his stick, this time meaning to hit, "Thou canst not get the better of me! For I am Lord Gannel of...Ganneldor!" He laughs maniacally.

The girl bounces from foot to foot, then darts in, bending to pick up Lominzil's half-stick. Jabbing it down at Gwaitmir's shoulder, she shouts, "You're dead! I mean - Thou hast been defeated!"

"Oh, I am slain!" cries the page, throwing his head back in agony. "Lady, I have failed you ... eh?" He blinks as the 'lady' delivers the finishing blow to Lord Gannel of Ganneldor.

Gwaithmir gurgles as he is stabbed. "Farewell, cruel world!" he exclaims, fist shaking at the apathetic sun. And then his arm falls, body going slack, head tilted to the side, and eyes staring unmoving at a rock.

Farielle laughs with pleasure. "We have won, Lomin!" But after a minute, her smile starts to fade. "Gwaith?" She drops to her knees beside him, still clutching the bedraggled flowers in one hand, and shaking him with the other. "Gwaith... stop that!" A note of real anxiety has sharpened her voice, for all she knows it is only pretend.

Lominzil also has no answer; he drapes lightly over Gwaithmir's elbow, lashes knit and tangled on a pale cheek.

Gwaithmir doesn't react to Farielle's supplications at first. It's the worry in her tone that calls him to action, turning to smile at her. "No worries, dearest. Just a game. Alas," he gestures with his thumb to Lominzil without stirring the arm on which his brother rests, "I fear your champion was also vanquished."

"Please, Gwaith... Lomin..." Farielle is almost in tears now, until the older of the brothers 'wakes up'. "Don't /do/ that!" she says, relief making her scold. "Yes," she considers, looking at the younger boy. "But didn't he do well? He knocked you over and everything! He will be a great knight, I know it. Lomin, wake up!"

Vanquished champion stirs, bearing a stupidly apologetic smile. "I am sorry. I will not do it again. Oh, Gwaithmir, I have mussed your clothing.

Gwaithmir pushes Lominzil off of him gently. "He will make a fine knight, I am sure. You...you what?" This to Lominzil. Gwaithmir checks himself out quickly, discovering every wrinkle that he then begins to assiduously pat down. "The cost of warfare, I am afraid. What reward would you have for your victory, sir Knight?"

Farielle sits back on her heels, smiling again. "It is all right," she says with an air of lofty unconcern. "It is /good/ for him to have wrinkles!"

"Tell him you want... tell him..." She tries to help Lominzil without really being able to think of anything.

"Dinner," says Lominzil earnestly, accompanied by the growling sound of his stomach.

"I will go and pack us a picnic, then." Gwaithmir gives his horse a considering glance. "I will leave you Heleth. You may wander about Edhellond with her, if you like, but do not let me hear of you racing through the fields, you hear me?" A warning finger is pointed at Lominzil.

"You would have had that anyways," Farielle says disgustedly. "You should have asked for... for half his kingdom! Or his daughter's hand in marriage! Or... " She squeals. "We can ride Heleth?" Diving at Gwaithmir, she hugs him ruthlessly about the middle.

"He hasn't a daughter yet, and his kingdom is woven of wind and song." Lominzil beams upward at Gwaithmir. "Will there be apples?"

Gwaithmir lets Farielle cling to him for a minute before plucking her up beneath her arms to set her in Heleth's saddle. The reins, that he left trailing along the ground, are collected and set in Fariel's hands. "Be careful, dearest." With that he begins to move off towards their father's manor, "There will be apples!" he calls back cheerfully to Lomin.

"I am /always/ careful," Farielle shouts after him, indignantly. But it melts like ice in the sun as she grins down at Lominzil. "Climb up! Where shall we go?"

The page-boy clambers up into the saddle, peering delightedly over Farielle's head. "To the horizon of that hill, and back!" he exclaims delightedly.

Farielle reins the horse around, and leans forward, urging it into a sedate canter - mindful (for the moment!) of Gwaithmir's instructions about no racing.

_Smiling at the memory, Farielle drifted into sleep._


	8. Chapter 8

_Time did strange things when you were trying to die. Farielle no longer knew how much of it had passed. She still dreamed of water, but distantly - as something waiting over a horizon she couldn't quite see. And her thoughts swirled in and out of dreams. Eruiglas stood before her, his dark hair gleaming in the sun. He was smiling. Her parents were laughing in the other room. This wasn't real, she knew, but she hardly cared. Hold on, she thought as her brother's image turned transparent and shivered into sand. Just hold on, a little longer, that's all. It won't be long._

It's midmorning, but - as usual - hot. Inside, the tent is dim; various people have come and gone, mostly leaving the Gondorian woman alone. Farielle is laying on her cot, half twisted so her knees are bent to the side, but her face is looking up. Her eyes are shut, and she is breathing swiftly and shallowly. Her skin is hot and dry, and her face, usually so white, is flushed. Her lips have chapped and cracked.

"Lady Seaward!" comes a man's voice from the tent door. This is a dark-eyed, broad shouldered man of about 30. He is not one of the guards of this tent, but he wears the livery of Seaward-and from his bearing he seems to be someone important. Or at least self-important. "I am told to seek the Lady here," he says imperiously pushing past the guards and into the tent.

Farielle opens her eyes at the sounds, but shuts them again. Whatever it is, it isn't important. Then she winces, and her mouth opens in a silent cry, as she reaches to rub at a cramp in her arm.

"Lady?" the man says in Westron as he hurries into the tent. He stops, staring at Farielle. "You are not Lady Seaward. Who are you?" he demands. Then, "Are you ill?"

Farielle's eyes fly open and she stares up at the unfamiliar man, warily. Then, carefully and slowly, she says, "I am Farielle. Girithlin." She takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. "I am only tired," she tells him. Her words are slurred just the tiniest amount, as if her tongue is too big for her mouth.

"Farielle...Giririthrith..." The name comes awkwardly from the soldier. "Tired?" he says, looking at her with a practiced eye. "It would seem not. You are the Lady's guest? Troubled would she be to see her guest so ill." And on that he unslings a waterskin worn crosswise over his chest and uncorks it, handing it to the woman. "Drink."

"Guest," Farielle repeats, and laughs, a dry, cracked sound. Then terror springs to her eyes - as well as a flash of nausea that crosses her face. She shakes her head, putting up a hand to ward off the waterskin. "No... please."

"What do you mean, no?" the man says, thrusting the waterskin her way. "It is hot and you quite obviously have not had enough to drink. Do you wish to die a horrible death of thirst? Do you wish to dishonor the Lady Seaward, so that people will say she mistreats her guests? Drink. I insist on it, in fact. Since you are refusing me, it means you are too ill to decide this already." He steps forward as if to forcibly pour water down the woman's throat.

Farielle puts up both hands now, turning her head away. "No," she says almost frantically, "No."

"This is madness," the still-nameless soldier says. "I will not have one of Lady Seaward's guests die on my watch. You -will- drink. Or I will force you to." He shoves the waterskin into her face.

"I'm not her guest," Farielle manages to say, pushing back on the waterskin, keeping her head turned to the side away from the soldier and his very unwelcome help.

"You are in her tent in her camp, you are not bound, you are guarded. Guest or prisoner, but valued, either way, and I say you will drink." That seems to do it-the soldier tries to grab the woman's hair or head, to tilt her head back and make her open her mouth so he can pour the water down her throat.

Her hair is pulled ruthlessly, turning her head, whether she wants it or not. Farielle grits her teeth together, still trying with both hands to push the water away - it splashes over her face and down onto the cot.

"Guards!" the nameless soldier calls, giving up and shoving Farielle back onto her cot. "See to it that this woman drinks water," he says as one of the door guards ducks his head inside the tent. "Force it down her throat if you must, but the Lady Seaward will be quite displeased with you both if she comes back to find her guest having convulsions from thirst. And see to it that she drinks regularly every hour. I will find a healer and the Lady." Disgusted, he turns and stomps out of the tent.

_The guards came boiling into the tent at the soldier's shout, swords half-drawn. But nothing was wrong. One rolled his eyes. The other shook his head in contempt. After a swift consultation in their own harsh tongue, they tramped over to Farielle's cot. _

_"Get up." _

_Farielle shut her eyes firmly and ignored them, but it was useless. She felt rough hands yanking her up by the shoulders, and someone's fingers dug into her jaw. It hurt, and she gasped - and water poured down her throat, choking her. Coughing, swallowing, gagging, at last, the unending stream let up. At least half of the water had spilled down her body. But some had been swallowed. Her eyes were already tearing from the terribly coughing spasms, and now she wept also._

_So close. She'd been so close. _

_"If you don't drink every hour like the Sergeant said, we'll pour it down you same as this time." It was one of the guards, standing over her and staring down with displeasure. Farielle nodded weakly and he went away. _

_And having tasted water, her body suddenly awoke to its cravings again. Farielle didn't think she would be able to try again. She wanted to drink so badly that her hands shook, her whole body shook. Only that she was still coughing water out of her lungs kept her from draining the entire rest of the jug then and there._

_Then her stomach twisted, and she gritted her teeth against a sudden nausea. When that had passed, she lay back, exhausted and stared up at the roof of the tent. Tears leaked down her cheeks and dripped into her damp bedding. Already the finger-marks on her cheeks were reddening; soon they would be bruises. _

Farielle breathes shallow and swift, and the water that was forced down her throat wasn't enough to repair cracked lips or cool dry eyes and mouth. Not yet.

Entering the tent is the Seaward slave Hayya. As he enters, he stops near a bowl of water and rinses his hands and splashes some water on his face in an attempt to cool off a bit from the heat. Looking over at the female slave, he shakes his head - it does not look like pity, rather he shakes his head out of disgust or annoyance. Moving over to his cot, he sets down a bundle he carries in his hands, and unwrapping it, he smiles at the finely crafted longsword within. Looking back to the other slave, he says "Are you in need of anything?"

"Did she drink?" The voice that speaks outside the tent is commanding, authoritative-and likely recognizable to Farielle as the nameless soldier who first forced her to drink earlier. He brushes his way into the tent, in the livery of Seaward and with the air of someone used to commanding.

Despair and fury - two emotions almost impossible to find together - yet they seesaw through Farielle's eyes. Hayya's voice - she knows that one - asks a question and she ignores it. Another man's voice - the emotions intensify, with rage being momentarily uppermost.

As Hayya hears the voice, he sets down his prize and then moves towards the woman. Nearing her cot, he says, "Have you had anything to drink?" His tone is kind for the most part, but it is apparent he is in no mood for games.

"Ah, well, I see she is being properly tended," the soldier's deep voice says as he peers over Hayya's shoulder. "Who is she? She says she is not the guest of Lady Seaward? And she refuses to drink."

Farielle sets her jaw and refuses also to answer, staring past both of the men as if they are not there, focusing on the roof.

Looking to the soldier, Hayya says, "She was captured some time ago. As for what is to be done with her, I have no idea, sir." Picking up a waterskin, he looks to the woman and says, "You can either drink on your own, or I will force you to do so.. your choice."

"Captured? But she is not bound..." Khaan the soldier says, puzzled. To the woman, he nods grimly. "Best drink on your own. This one can tell you," he gestures to Hayya. "He is a Stonelander like you. Or was, they say."

The anger dies away as suddenly as it had come, leaving only despair. "I drank," Farielle says, her voice hoarse and not much more than a whisper. She looks at the men now: for Khaan, reproach. Only a flicker of a glance to Hayya.

Dropping the waterskin upon the woman's chest, Hayya says, "Drink more." Looking to Khaan, he says, "Where would she run too? She is surrounded by the Armies of Umbar. Her own people fled for their lives, leaving her here as if she were dead."

"Well, she wishes she were dead, quite obviously," Khaan gestures toward the woman, making a face. "And if she succeeds at it, my guess is it'll be your hide that gets tanned by the Lady Seaward for it. She likes her little pets," the soldier says, taunting Hayya.

Looking to the soldier, Hayya says, "My mistress knows that I serve her well, I have killed many a man with my bare hands for merely insulting her." His words are cold as he smiles slyly at the soldier.

Farielle doesn't move when the heavy waterskin drops onto her chest. After a while, she lifts a hand to the skin, curling her fingers around the neck. She lifts it, turns her head to one side to take a swallow, then sets it down again.

A snort, as Khaan crosses both arms over his chest and eyes the slave. "Your bare hands? Come now. You are welcome to kill me if you can. Here and now. With your bare hands."

"Though afterwards, if I deem you unworthy, I may slay you with my blade."

With a slight laugh, Hayya says, "No sir, I would not do such a thing. Not to someone who serves my Mistress, though perhaps I should speak to her on that subject and find out for us." Looking to the woman, he says, "Good. You will finish that before nightfall."

The girl refuses to look at Hayya, though for a minute, it looks like she hopes the two of them will get in a fight and, preferably, slaughter each other. Neither does she answer.

""Speak to her as you like," Khaan answers hautily. "But if you are tending to this captive and the Lady wishes her alive, then see to it that she remains so."

To the soldier, Hayya nods and says, "I thank you, sir."

A flicker of a glance towards Khaan, filled with resentment and possibly hatred. Then Farielle is back to staring at the sky.

"And you..." Khaan goes on, settling his eyes on Hayya. "You are the one that the dark magic brought back from the dead? Or so the rumor is?" His tone seems to suggest that he admires such a thing.

Dark magic. Khaan may admire this, but Farielle shivers, as if she is cold.

Looking at the soldier, Hayya says "Yes, my mistress risked much to save my life, she sent for the High Priestess Mara, through the power of our Dark lord I was healed and brought back from the brink." Looking down at the woman he shakes his head and says "From that day I have felt.. stronger."

"Wise was she in that," Khaan nods. "I should speak to her about it. Do you think..." he looks speculatively at the captive woman, "that is her purpose in capturing this one? To use her as a sacrifice of some sort to the Great One? In repayment for your life, no doubt."

With a sly smile Hayya looks down at the woman and says "Perhaps that is to be her fate.. Though I would have hoped for someone prettier." Looking to the soldier he says "Though I know my Mistress was not happy to have to resort to the dark arts, but she did none the less to save my life."

The girl's eyes widen in horror, and she takes a deep shuddering breath, clenching her jaws together to keep from screaming, maybe. Both hands close; one into a fist, fingernails digging into the palm, the other around the neck of the waterskin that she is still holding.

"Ack...she will make a pitiful sacrifice, though," Khaan says, scowling. "Weak and white-faced, just like the rest of the Stonelanders. Just look at her now, even-she hears us talking and she cowers on her bed. The Great One deserves a great sacrifice, not some pitiful wimpering fool of a woman like this. Better to sell her off to a fat merchant. She's pretty enough to be worth a few coins as a harem girl. If she can be trained up. These Stonelanders...so weak willed."

Nodding his head Hayya looks to the woman and barks an order of "Drink!" then looking back to the Soldier he says "Only time will tell what my mistress has planned for her, be it sacrifice or to be sold off for a few coins." Bowing his head he moves off towards his cot, picking up a wetstone he unsheathes the longsword on his bed and takes a seat, running the stone over the blade from hilt to the very tip.

Farielle is shivering. Weak-willed, perhaps. But she has enough strength, or pride, or determination not to weep in front of these men. And enough strength or pride to glare at Hayya and not follow his orders immediately. When she does, again, she takes only a small sip; as slowly as she can, trying not to let it shake too obviously. Khaan, she tries to avoid looking at entirely.

"And skinny, too. Ugly we cannot fix, but she is far too skinny to fetch a good price for a merchant's harem. You should see to it that she is fattened up, fed right. And look-" Khaan points toward the girl, "see how she dawdles in dribbling drops of water down her throat. She will need to be broken, as well, like a good horse, though-she has spirit, clearly, to resist so. But needs to be tamed. And fattened. Pitiful things, these Stonelander women."

"Your lady lets you carry a sword?" Khaan now asks in surprise, watching Hayya with the whetsone.

Nodding his head Hayya says "She needs to remain looking like a stonelander, for that is her appeal when she is to be sold, why pay more for a stonelander that looks exactly like the rest of your harem?" pausing for a moment "I am allowed to carry a blade so as to kill my Mistress' enemies and protect her if need be."

They are still talking about her. Farielle can't stop shivering; if they think she is skinny and ugly, she doesn't care; but even in her fright, a spark of indignation wavers a moment before it is extinguished again. A sword. She glances towards Hayya, briefly. If he left it ever...


	9. Chapter 9

The flap to the tent opens, and two women suddenly appear... Umbareans by their appearance, tan of skin though fairer than desert-hailing Haradrim, and clad in the relatively well-to-do attire of city dwellers. One is a venerable woman of at least five or six decades, while her companion is a young girl, and in her arms she carries several thick bundles of cloth. They do not bear the sigil of Seaward, however, nor that of Farside, or any other Tower.

The two women glance from the tall Gondorian, to Khaan, then to the other northerner: Farielle. The elderly woman clears her throat and speaks, seemingly to Khaan or Hayya: "This is her, eh?"

Khaan turns and stares at the two women. "And who might you be?"

"The High Priestess of Mordor," the old woman says, and then lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. Her younger, perhaps more pious, companion blanches. When the woman is done with her laughing she says. "Or His Majesty's tailor. Take your pick!"

Taking one of the bundles of cloth from her assistant - white silk - the old seamstress gestures to Khaan, and then to Farielle. "Help me with her, will you? I need some measurements."

"His Majesty is it now?" Khaan says, not hiding the sneer curling his lips. "And who exactly might that be? A price has already been paid for this Stonelander?" At which, turns to the girl and barks sharply: "UP! And make no fuss!"

Farielle jerks at Khaan's unexpected shout. Slowly, she sits up, then stands, swaying as if her balance is uncertain. Two days of not drinking can do that to a person. "Tailor?" she asks, hesitantly.

"Yes, whiteskin. Tai-lor," the old woman repeats slowly, as if talking to an imbecile. As Farielle stands uncertainly, the younger woman withdraws a long thin strip of leather and then moves to stand behind the Gondorian, measuring her waist, height, and so forth.

The old seamstress looks back to Khaan as she holds up a few different kinds of silk, comparing them to the Gondorian prisoner's complexion and hair. "The King of Gondor, you drunken wastrel," she corrects him in a tone that is gravelly yet also friendly, or even flirty. "The Lady of Seaward has offered her to him as a potential bride."

The silk is beautiful. Despite herself, Farielle's eyes linger on it; staying longest on shades of blue and green. She is trying not to listen to or care what they say, but still she stiffens again at the mention of 'bride'.

"The King of Gondor..." Khaan laughs a little, then says, "right, right," giving the older woman a wink-and speculatively eyeing the younger one, before giving up on that prospect, seemingly. "SO...this runt of the litter of Gondor's women is to be bride to the King?" He shakes his head, snapping at Farielle. "Do you hear that? Stand up straight and drink more of that water before you ruin yourself for him. Or we will make you drink after these lovely seamstresses leave."

The young assistant holds up some particularly dazzling gold-lined azure silk, but the old seamstress frowns and then snaps: "No! Get rid of the colours. I swear these damned Stonelanders cannot pull off anything except black or white," she mutters angrily, in spite of any disagreements Farielle might have as to the colour choices. "Stick to... that-" she points at some particular cloth. "Umbarean eggshell. No... Cadaver cream. Hm. Maybe that ivory white from Far Harad."

As the assistant goes about sampling some new colours, the old woman turns back to Khaan. "She might be," she shrugs, as if her employer's eccentricities and obsessions are nothing more than peculiarities that happen to pay well. "If her lineage is confirmed by the Royal genealogists. And the suitability of her stock for producing worthwhile heirs is recommended by the Royal midwives. And her profile is deemed aesthetically pleasing by the Royal sculptors." The old seamstress holds a ream of bright pink silk to Khaan's front and waggles her brows. "Now -you- can pull off this colour!"

The blue, in the brief moment it is held up against Farielle, turns her blue-grey eyes an amazing shade; perhaps the old woman wasn't looking. Or perhaps she just doesn't care. Farielle herself watches it almost longingly as the younger woman folds it away. Colors are safe. Silk can't hurt you. She stares at the different swathes intently. But in spite of her attempts, her attention is jerked back by the old woman's rambling speech. Her profile? For a moment, in sheer astonishment, it seems Farielle might have laughed. If she were in a different place. With different people.

"Pink! I'm no fat merchant's slave boy! Get that away from me," Khaan says in disgust, swatting at the material. "If you ask me, the pink would look good on the Stonelander. Better than cadaver white-she's half dead looking already, what with that skin of hers. But why your Master wishes to see her in any clothes at all is beyond me."

The old seamstress snatches away the pink silk with a scowl, her flirtations rebuffed. "I suggest you keep your fashion advice to yourself! As that is why you are a corsair, not the most sought-after tailor in the land!" Turning around, she ambles over to Farielle and, in a fit of pique, holds up a different silk... this one resembling more of a vomit-green. "Hmmm," she purrs thoughtfully. "Now this is nice."

Nice... is a matter of interpretation. Suddenly, Farielle looks ill. Seasick, perhaps. Staring at it, appalled, the girl blurts out, "That?" Then she stops herself, and lowers her eyes. Meekly, "It is very nice."

"Are you blind, woman?" Khaan snorts. "The girl is right. That color is completely wrong for her." He reaches over, trying to grab the blue silk from the pile that the assistant seamstress carries. "Try this one-here." He holds it up to his own face. "Now..one would assume your King will want to be able to see the shape of her body as well, correct? What kind of dress do you plan?" he asks, suddenly taking charge.

The old seamstress turns to Khaan in a fury, tilting her head up as a haughty coldness comes over her. Then, as Khaan suddenly takes charge... she suddenly grows flirty again. "Oh, I -enjoy- the presence of a man who has a mind for clothing," she answers surreptitiously holding the pink to his back while he's focused on Farielle.

Then she glances at the blue the Corsair now proffers, and shrugs. "Sure, you can put that on her... If you want her to look like a whale going for a stroll. His Majesty wishes a formal engagement gown of a Numenorean cut. His Majesty is less interested in seeing her hips and more in her pedigree," she recites.

"Well, this is an...unexpected scene," comes the voice of Yildirim who's head has popped through the flaps of the tent. "It's oddly reminiscent of a dream I had." Deadpan at first, his efforts break as he smirks, snorting with amusement. "More the nightmare actually. Is that for you...?" he asks Khaan of the silk. "Quite fetching."

Something has restored a little of Farielle's equilibrium. Enough that she says, casting Khaan's words back - not at him, but at the old woman, "I am too skinny to look like a whale in anything." Her voice is still hoarse, as if the words hurt to say, and she doesn't speak very loudly.

"Her pedigree?" Khaan chokes back a laugh, then turns and swats at the pink silk again. "The fabrics are for this woman of noble birth that my Lady SEaward found. Soon she will be your Queen, Yildirim. You should tend to her, therefore."

"Is that so?" Yildirim responds, brows raised, interest piqued. He steps fully into the tent, eyeing the girl and the escape being performed for her. "You climb the ladders of Umbar society quickly, Farielle."

"Or would you rather look like a walking candelabra," the old seamstress growls at Farielle, holding up folds of a brilliant gold cloth that many women would die for, but the old Umbarean obviously thinks is of poor quality. "Or an oliphaunt?" she gestures at equally fine silver. "I think this is much nicer-" she indicates a mucus-coloured sample, ere she notes Yildirim's entrance.

"Ahhh, Captain," the old seamstress frowns at him. "She is not the Queen of Gondor, yet," she corrects Khaan. "The Royal genealogoists must find her worthy. The Royal midwives must find her healthy. The Royal sculptors must find her pleasing. The Royal linguists must find her laughter to be of a perfectly modulated frequency..." the old woman's words trail off; she is obviously tired of repeating. "I do, however, have something for you," she adds to Yildirim.

"I tried to jump off it," Farielle says quietly to Yildirim. She looks away from him, and says, managing it lightly, "And if my profile is acceptable." The bruises on her face are turning darker; and she swallows with difficulty, and sways again, as if she is suddenly dizzy, putting out a hand to keep her balance.

"I want the blue," Farielle adds, after a minute trying to catch her breath and not fall over. "I look terrible in yellow."

"Oh no, dear lady, I am well," Yildirim says, hands up to defend again what she would put upon him, be it physical or not. "Though it is pleasing to know my Lord has such royal people to attend him." He takes note of the Gondorian's condition, a light frown taking place of his merriment, but saying nothing of it.

"I will fetch a healer for the girl," Khaan says, scowling as Farielle sways. "And Yildirim, see to it that she drinks more water meantime. She is ill used to this heat. And..." Another scowl for the color prefernces of the healer, "I will ask Lady Eruphel to come choose suitable colors for her gown." Without waiting to hear the opinions or reactions of those he is ordering around, Khaan leaves.

The young woman assisting the old seamstress appears to have finished with her measurements, and the old seamstress nods approvingly. A bunch of colours - mostly shades of white, as well as the mucus and even the blue Farielle expresses a preference for - are bundled away into one. Once Khaan is gone, however, the seamstress also adds the pink... for her own uses. "We shall be back with your dress," she announces to Farielle.

Then the old woman turns to Yildirim. "You may relax, Captain. It's not a dress. In fact, His Majesty commanded that I give it to you." A black tabard is offered, of very fine make and bearing the King's White Tree, but no longer the Raven of Farside upon its boughs... instead, a Heron. "I must go now, to finish the whiteskin's dress... and maybe a little something else." With a nod to her assistant, the old seamstress departs.

It must be noted at this time that in two days, Khaan shall receive by anonymous courier a sash of pink silk - made in the manner of those commonly worn by Umbar's warriors - with a small love heart embroidered on the inside.

Surprise at the tabard, Yildirim calls after the seamstress, "But... what is this... who..." but she is gone already, and he can but shout, "Where are the pants to match?" Then a sigh, "How I long for war again with such madness as this."

Then they are alone, Farielle and he.

Suddenly, nearly everyone is gone. Farielle sits back down on the cot behind her; abruptly and hard, as if her legs have just given way, and buries her face in her hands.

There is silence while the lady hides sight from herself. And then, nearly upon her, more words, "Would you like one?"

Farielle is trembling again, but when she looks up, her eyes are dry. So are her lips, cracked and parched. "What?"

A trio of odd flora. Three bulbs, prickly and red, sit in his hand, each but an inch or so across. With them he bears a smile, bright and friendly.

She stares at them for a long moment, reaching out at last to touch one with a finger. The rush of pride that held her up during the last long hour is gone, and the blue-grey eyes that lift to Yildirim's are desolate. "What are they?"

And quieter, ruefully, "I would rather have a knife."

"Fruit. Just peel off the ugly part. It comes off easily enough."

In his other hand he holds up another fruit, green and red. "And odd that you should mention a knife, for this one requires such. Though, sadly, the last time I gave a man a knife, he plunged it into my chest." He shrugs, as if there is no more explanation needed.

"Thank you." She reaches to take the offered fruit, looking up at him for a moment and then away. "You need not worry. I couldn't stab you if I wanted to." There is no point in refusing to eat the fruit, not with soldiers about ordered to make her drink something every hour; she peels it carefully and takes a bite.

He takes a seat before her, and plucks the dagger from his belt. He cuts a side off the melon-sized fruit, revealing a yellow flesh inside, handing it to her as well.

"So, I fear I could not leave, but I paid a man to send your note to Gondor. Assuming he is not killed, it should arrive soon enough."

"You have met Eron, have you met his sister? Lady Nisrin?"

Farielle eats slowly. A little nausea shows on her face, but she manages the first fruit without any incidents. Her eyes lift to his as he speaks of the note, and she nods, though the news doesn't seem to bring her any pleasure. "Thank you," she says, dutifully polite.

"Yes. She - she played her lute for me." Something in that memory fills her face with misery.

Her woe seems unnoticed as he bites from the yellow fruit flesh, juice trickling down his fingers. "I did not know she played the lute. Did she play well?"

"I think so," Farielle replies. She begins to eat the other piece of fruit he gave her, glancing once at his dagger. And then her gaze goes to the far side of the tent, where Hayya's cot is, and reluctantly, she lifts the waterskin he had given her and takes a small swallow from it. With a flicker of a smile, "Please do not tell her I wasn't listening very closely. But I did enjoy her music."

Yildirim considers some more, chewing on the fruit. "You are a noblewoman, no? What sorts of gifts did you receive in Gondor? Did you have suitors?" He pauses then adds, "What sorts of gifts would you want?"

Farielle pauses, mid-bite, having laid the waterskin back down again. She tips her head to one side, considering him. "I - yes. I am not old enough to wed, but there were men who - who expressed an interest. In the future." She blushes, her pale skin turning rose, and maybe to turn the subject, asks, "Is there someone you wish to give gifts to?"

Now it is Yildirim's turn to redden but his words do not seem to show any embarrassment, "I have thought on it. Perhaps."

"I do not know if it would be appropriate or even appreciated." He grins, "I have little experience myself."

"The gifts I liked best were when I could tell someone really cared about what I liked and wanted," Farielle offers. She sets the fruit down also, half-eaten. "Instead of jewelry just because all women are supposed to like it." Something makes her smile, softening her face for a brief moment.

"Well, that is good advice I think, though makes the task more difficult, since I know little of her likes." Yildirim sighs, "If I even should."

"Then just give her something simple, so that she knows you are thinking of her." Farielle looks down at the bitten-into yellow slice of fruit and something twists her mouth. "A piece of fruit." Then she glances up again, curiously. Thinking of Yildirim's dilemma instead of her own has smoothed away the rawest edges of her distress. Or at least submerged them for a time. "Why shouldn't you?" she asks.

"Umbar politics are, I would guess, as difficult as Gondorian. Family ties, Tower ties, religious ties, and all with their obligations," Yildirim says, offering the woman another slice of the sweet fruit.

"Is it not like jumping from the edge of a great waterfall? The thrill of the fall, the refreshing coolness of the water... only to be dashed on the rocks below. Is it not better to focus on the goals of one's life? Fickle are not the hearts of great men."

Abruptly subdued, Farielle says, "I don't know." She shakes her head at the second piece of fruit, and a little wistfully says, "But perhaps you would fall into the pool at the bottom, not upon the rocks? My ... parents did that, I think." She swallows. It still hurts, but not so much, and she only winces a little. "Father always said that he was stronger be-because of her." And suddenly, she is weeping, silent tears that slide down her cheeks, while she turns her head, putting up a hand to try and hide her face.

Again the young Corsair says nothing as she cries for a time. Then, "I made a salve for your wrists. You said you worked with the healers so I assume you can wrap your bandages."

"Would you like me to see if I can find something for the bruises?"

"I miss my family," Farielle says with a sort of forlorn dignity, wiping her cheeks dry. "I am sorry. I did not mean to cry."

"Yes. Thank you."

"It is well. You are a prisoner and a Gondorian. Lady or squire, it is the expected outcome," he jokes, bringing a smile at least to his own lips. "On that topics, do you know a Menelglir Telpekhor? Or perhaps a Bor Bragollach?"

Farielle tries to smile, unsuccessfully, at his 'joke'. "I am not very acquainted with the Telpekhori," she says, her voice cooling automatically. "Lord Bragollach, I know a little. Not well. How do you know them?"

"Menelglir and I spent a great deal of time together when I was in Gondor. He is," Yildirim's features lighten, genuinely pleased, "By far, my favorite northerner. Though I know he despises me so. Ah, perhaps one day, when we are old men, we can talk and remember days long gone as fast friends." He chuckles fondly at the thought.

"As for the Bragollach, more of a less pleasant interest. He was my captor for a time. It is my aim to repay," his mood darkens, "The kindness he showed me. I saw him on the field. He remembered me not and struck me down. A disappointing outcome for me."

"He is a madman," Farielle mutters. "I do not like him. I wish..." She stops without saying anything more. "We have not had good relations with Telphekhor, so I do not know Menelglir at all. I think he is younger than I am though." She frowns, her eyes unfocusing. "He was the son of Nalstrarim Telpekhor..." Then shakes her head. "I am sure I have not met him."

"You have poor relations with the Telpekhor? That is fascinating." Yildirim leans forward, unconsciously, "Would you tell me more of that? What do the..." he thinks, "Gilrithin, was it? Your family have against the Telpekhor?"

But Farielle suddenly remembers who she is talking to, and a slight chagrin comes into her expression. She glances away and shrugs, trying to make it look casual, and says, "It is unimportant. Why do you wish to know?"

Yildirim laughs at this answer, "Have we not been speaking only of unimportant things?"

"There are things I seek in life that cannot be gotten by blade alone. So I study people and their ways, seeking what truths can be found there. Your nobility is unlike our own and so I find it a curiosity. Or maybe it is not different at all and I am ignorant. That is why I wish to know."

"Oh." Farielle looks at him cautiously. "You yourself said not to trust you," she tells him. "And - I do not wish for a careless word of mine to be used against my people. But it is only a little matter. They think that their lineage is superior to ours, and it makes them ill-tempered to be wrong. In important things, we are united."

"I see. A simple feud of families then," Yildirim concludes, content with her answer.

"And allow me to augment my statement on trust. Clearly I am Corsair and Farside, not Telpekhor or Girithlin, so it was my meaning to not see my acts for more than what they are. I will not set you free, unless ordered by my Lord or Lady. If I learn of some information that can aid myself or them, I shall use it to my advantage. But, I am not one to speak untruths. There are many in Umbar whose bond of words is unyielding as dipping your hand into the sea, that is to say not at all. I am not one such as they."

"I will not lie to you. And you can believe that because I have no reason to. And I have read tales that if your lineage is true enough, you can look into my eyes and see the truth in my words, even now," and so he does look into her eyes.

Farielle listens, her eyebrows drawing together a little in an unconscious frown. But she does meet his gaze, looking steadily into his eyes, and whether or not the tales are true, and whether or not she was born with that gift, after a moment, she nods. "I do not think you are lying to me," she says. She sighs a little. "I do not lie. Perhaps I shall have to learn."

"Be wary... such gifts are not only to be found in the lands of Gondor." He stands now stretching his arms over his head, "Sadly, my day is filled with tasks less pleasant than fruit cutting. May I ask that you be discreet with what we talked about this day? I have been freer with my own wounds then perhaps prudent."

The girl nods. "I will remember." And she smiles, almost shyly. "Thank you for talking to me. And for the fruit. I will safeguard your words, as much as I am able."

Yildrim nods, smiling at her thanks. He turns and pushes open the flap to the tent, then stops and looks back, "Would you hear but a few words of advice, Lady Farielle, before I go?"

She has looked down as he left, picking up the fruit that is left and nibbling at it, and now she glances back up. "Yes?"

"You are proud, and if the bruises on your face did not paint that picture clearly enough, then it could be easily told by the slant of your nose. There is a time for pride, of defiance and willful determination."

He saddens some, "It is not that time for you. Do you understand my meaning?"

Made unwary by surprise, Farielle doesn't hide the swirl of emotions that cross her face swiftly enough, and for a moment, the torment of the trap she is caught in shows plainly. Then she drops her eyes. "I understand," she says quietly.

"Then be well, Lady Farielle."

"Until next time," a quick nod and Yildirim disappears into the bright afternoon sun.


	10. Chapter 10

_Another day has gone, another day come much the same. Sudden waves of terror, rebellion, homesickness, wash across Farielle, making her almost frantic and unable to sit still. Then she paces - if no one is there - or bites down on the heel of her hand until the pain without eases the pain within. In between, she sits numbly on her cot and waits, she knows not for what._

It is late afternoon, nearing dusk, and the breeze is coming in nicely, if a little damp. The camp outside, if one should see it, has tidied up nicely: the blood is washed away, the rubble nudged, moved, and swept. The Haradrim are preparing to depart.

From within a closed-off portion of Lady Eruphel's tent, there is the angry sound of raised voices, uttered in Haradaic. And then Nisrin storms out into the main area of the tent, looking very much ruffled.

Farielle has no idea what the camp looks like; she is inside. All the time. It's getting boring, sitting, waiting. She looks much better than the day before, her lips are still a little chapped, but her face isn't so hollow and she has more energy. She listens to the arguing with idle interest - having no idea what is being said - but then, there's not much else to listen to either.

Nisrin stops short. Taking a deep breath, the girl runs a hand through her dishevelled hair and smiles towards Farielle. "You look better today. They didn't let me in, but I heard Lord Khaan was not happy."

Farielle gives Nisrin a half-twist of her mouth that might be a smile. "I suppose it was foolish of me to hope," she says quietly. "I should have known someone would see." She shrugs, nodding towards a cup and pitcher that are both full. "But as you see, I am drinking." She sounds resigned; and just as she says this, a guard pokes his head around some curtain or other, and Farielle looks up, then sighs and does actually take several swallows. The guard nods and vanishes.

The Haradrim girl settles herself comfortably on the floor, startling once when a guard pops his head out of nowhere. "What were you trying to do?" Nisrin asks. "Lord Alphros doesn't like desiccated ladies."

The older girl looks at Nisrin levelly for several minutes. "What do you think? If they hadn't noticed a little longer, Lord Alphros could have found himself another lady, as fat as he liked."

Nisrin holds Farielle's stare, then looks away. "Oh," she says shortly, biting her lip. "There are more honorable ways to ... do that." The girl hugs her knees, then says, her voice flat, "I thought you were different. Stronger than what I was told of your women."

"I have no other ways," Farielle says quietly. She gestures around. "What would you suggest? That I steal Hayya's sword, while he is sleeping with it?" She looks away at the girl's condemning words, then back, her head held high. "You could not understand."

"I could not," agrees Nisrin levelly. Her eyes flash, proud, as she looks at the other woman, "My people are not brought up to die quietly. If I were to be shipped off to be wed to one of your men - not that any would want me, really - I would have taken as many as I could down with me in the camp. I was surprised you would not try to throttle me while we were alone."

"All the same," the girl says softly, tilting her head, "I wish you would not try it again."

"You are taught to fight," Farielle says uncaringly. "We are taught nobility. Why should I kill you? You have done nothing to me. And if I did as you suggested, and somehow got a weapon, it would be worse than useless, for I do not know how to use it, and could kill no one, even if I wished to try, and then I would be in much worse case than I am now with nothing to show for it."

But the other girl's sudden - sympathy? - makes her falter, where contempt has not. She looks down at the floor. Very quietly, "I betray my family's honor by living." Tears sparkle in her eyes, but do not fall.

"I am not a boor, nor a monster," replies Nisrin with frank displeasure. "I might help you run," she adds quietly, "if I thought it would do any good. You are my age, and I have had no one else to talk to. But your ships sailed days ago."

"You dishonor House Girithlin by starving like a dog. There are better ways to die, but surely better ways to live."

Farielle nods, her face both sad and resigned. "They are gone, and I cannot hide among you," she says, looking at the extreme difference between her skin and Nisrin's. She sighs, shaking her head at the other girl's last comment, and seems unsure what exactly to say. But she tries, moved by some impulse - another girl, near her age, and she has no one else to talk to either, save Yildirim.

"It is my heritage," she tries to explain. "We are descended through age after age from the first fathers of men in Middle Earth, who were allies of the Eldar. And my many-times great grandmother was one." Her voice is quiet, still awed by the thought no matter how long she has known it. "It is our honor to keep our name and our line pure. I .. no matter what happens to me, if I live, here, I cannot keep to that."

"A close-knit family?" says Nisrin, and her sneer is defensive, envious. "That is a nice story, to be sure, but the pale Faeries are a thing of the past. Your lineage may be pure, but here you are alone. What will -you- do now?"

But Farielle isn't hurt by the sneer. She looks at the girl, meeting her eyes, and it seems she understands Nisrin's envy. She nods once, in acknowledgement or acceptance, and then bows her head, looking unseeingly down at her hands. "I do not know," she whispers. "I do not know what to do."

"Stay?" Nisrin suggests mildly, raising her eyebrows. She shuffles closer, leaning back against the posts of the cot. "Stay and live for a while. It cannot grow worse, I am sure. Lord Alphros is noble and not cruel; he has been long misunderstood by the Northerners."

Farielle wavers. She is young, and doesn't really /want/ to die. "But if I have a child," she says uncertainly, and blushes faintly.

"Your son," answers the Haradrim girl matter-of-factly. "And Alphros's heir."

The Gondorian girl shivers all over, looking suddenly ill. "I - I /cannot/!" she says, desperately, and lifts her head, looking around the tent as if she might miraculously see a knife that had somehow been overlooked.

"He will not force you," says Nisrin with a raised brow. "Surely he has learned from Lord Pharazon's faults."

"You are envied!" the girl adds with jesting jealousy. "Lord Alphros is well-liked by many women, surely. How we sighed when we learned he wished for a Gondorian Queen!"

Farielle shivers again at that name, the worst of all the Kings of Numenor, though for a time, the brightest and best. But what she says, almost to herself, is, "He speaks as though I have choices, when there are none." Then she lifts her gaze again and tries to match the joking tone. "I will trade with you... though we will have to bleach your skin somehow. Or paint it white."

"You are too tall," points out Nisrin in an effort to make light of things, sighing. "And I haven't your eyes, nor your figure. And you do not know how to sail."

"I can sail," Farielle protests. "A little, anyways. I've been, and I watched how they did it, and even steered some. We live along the coast, after all."

"Perhaps we could stretch you out? You would have to go around with your eyes shut..." As humor goes, it is fairly feeble, but she is trying.

"My brother would notice straightaway," Nisrin grimaces, glancing angrily toward that section of the tent. "I am sorry. Could I bring you anything?"

"I would like something to do," Farielle says wistfully.

"What do your nobles learn? Besides how not to fight?" asks Nisrin pointedly. "Although I do not think there is a harp in the camp."

"I can play things other than a harp," Farielle replies. "But... I would rather not, here. I do not know what you can bring - paper and ink? I can draw and paint and sing and embroider and ride and sail - a little - and hunt with a bow, and supervise the stillroom women, and tell if my steward is cheating me." A half-smile hovers on her mouth for a second. "But paper. If that is not too difficult."

"Pen and paper," echoes Nisrin, then smiles. "As long as you are not drafting up your will!" She ducks out of the tent-flap into the bright hazy afternoon.


	11. Chapter 11

_It was so good to be home. That was Lominzil's first thought as he disembarked from the ship and stood, balancing against a swell that no longer was, on the stone harbor steps of Dol Amroth. For the first time in what felt like years, a smile stretched over his face. He took a deep breath of the cool, salt air, and turned with sudden determination towards the Healing Houses. Farielle. Seeing her would wash all the confusion and blood and hatred out of his mind, and he would be himself again._

_"WHAT?"_

_The young healer quailed. "I'm - I'm sorry, sir," she stammered. "I thought - everyone knew - we searched for her for hours, and all the next day as well. Squire Menelglir fought like a man possessed to try and save her, but - but he was out-numbered and alone. I'm sorry. But she is alive. I - I told you the message just as we received it. Have hope; she is alive, and surely you will be able to ransom her home."_

_The young man stared at her, then turned on his heels and plunged out, heedless of who might be in his way. _

Sea and sky meet: waves lap restlessly against the worn white stone of the harbor, morning rain falls wind-tossed and bleak on the slick flagstones. Ships of myriad sizes lie in various states of readiness. Some, new-returned from Caldur, are exposed to the bones, battered by long misuse and rotting in the lukewarm southern bays; others stand alert, patrolling Belfalas restlessly.

Between the fishermen and their catch, shipwright and floating patient, there is little of a path to be found. But the lean, blue-clad form of the young man, Lominzil, traverses easily among the regular commotion of the docks. He forces his way through, never minding the drizzling rain, his odd blue-grey eyes hunting among the faces.

There is a lady on the docks; for who knows what reason. Maybe just to watch the ships, for she is standing in a quiet spot, out of the way, and doing nothing. The determined figure of the lad in blue catches her eyes and she watches him.

Thick cloak, hood worn up, protects Menelglir against wind and rain and chill as he moves about here, his deliberate footsteps seeming to suggest that he has duties he is attending to-whatever they may be. He hops onto the docks from the railing of one of the ships here, starting to make his way also, toward the town.

"Lady Tathar," Menelglir says, managing to spot the woman despite her out-of-the-way spot. He heads toward her, swan-crested cloak and blue tunic getting wet.

Lominzil's gaze flickers like a fell wave to the cloaked Blue Squire, and he begins to step in that direction, an urgency lent to the roughness of his push and shove.

Tathar looks away from Lominzil when she hears her name. "Menelglir," she says, smiling a little. "Good day. What have you been doing?"

"Delivered a message to one of the Swan Fleet ships from Sir Gwendion," Menelglir answers, completely oblivious that Lominzil is on a path toward him. "You heard that he is Knight-Captain now? Or Acting Knight-Captain at the very least?"

"No, I hadn't heard." Tathar's smile grows. "I am glad to hear that. He is a good man, and wise." She looks back at Lominzil, and finally recognizes him - her smile slips, and the sadness that has been in her eyes since they returned from Caldur grows.

Silently, Lominzil - he was a White Squire last they sailed, he would not have dared do such then - lunges for Menelglir's sleeve, seeking to twine cold fingers into the thick fabric of the other's cloak and then pull him back, close. He says nothing. One might observe that this new Blue Squire's eyes are red-rimmed with grief.

"Yes, it certainly is a good thing, though the task that lies ahead of him is...aaaack!" Menelglir yelps as he is dragged back by Lominzil. He twists about to see who is doing such, but that only wraps the cloak tight around his neck, so he grabs a hand to try to release Lominzil's hold.

"Lomin!" Tathar exclaims. "Let go, you're choking him!"

"Hello, Menelglir," comes the Girithlin man's cool voice, deathly calm. "Do you know a Farielle Girithlin?" The Blue Squire's hand strikes his arm and he loosens, but keeps his hold.

Lominzil glances to Tathar, makes to say something, and looks back to Menelglir.

"Of course I know Farielle Girithlin," Menelglir answers, starting to sound angry. "What is the meaning of this? Let go of me."

Tathar looks from one to the other, starting to frown. "Lomin," she says, stepping forward, but then has nothing else to say.

"Know, yes," smiles Lominzil mirthlessly. "She was the girl who was kidnapped, and who you could not save. I was told you were the last of the Gondorians to see her. Would you like to know that my sister is still -alive- in those Southrons' hands?"

He lets go grudgingly, though his hand is shaking visibly.

"Your -sister-?" Menelglir's mouth drops open. "And you blame me for not saving her when she had wandered so far alone from the camp that it is a wonder that anyone at all saw her taken?" he answers, anger growing.

But then Menelglir swallows hard, forcing his anger down. "I am sorry Lominzil. I tried. I had to kill a man, and then another came at me equally as ferocious. I could not get to her. But...if she is alive...seek to ransom her. We ransomed our 4 year old cousin recently."

"She is not a fool, but she is not a soldier," Lominzil snaps, his eyes and voice rasping dry. "But you were there, and now she is gone. And now you speak of trading girls like bales of cloth. It is not so with Fari ... her words were like that of one about to die. I am going back there to retrieve her before the Haradrim handle her like..." he says blindly, stepping back from the Blue Squire where a moment ago he was about to throttle him.

Tathar darts a glance at Menelglir, still not saying what she is thinking - that the girl might be better off dead. But then... "Her words? Lomin, what do you mean? What words?"

"A messenger sailed from the South. They bring word that she is alive - that 'she made her own choices, that you should not seek vengeance,'" Lominzil clenches his hand into a fist, "how could I not, 'that she loved you.'"

He looks to Tathar, his gaze eerily blue and mad-lit. "She knows that a fate lies there for her, and tells me to stay."

Wordless with shock and grief - and compassion - Tathar reaches out to touch the young man's arm. She would hug him, if they were not standing in the middle of the docks. "Lomin," she repeats, helplessly.

"Going back? What do you mean? Going to Harad? You cannot. Well, your family can try to send an envoy...it has been done before, Lominzil. There -is- hope," Menelglir says, frowning deeply. "Find the messenger. Offer a price. Do it now."

Lominzil flinches. "To offer money is my father's decision," he states quietly. "Mine is to seek her. I will find her. Do you imagine," the squire begins, a wolfish smile on his lips, "that I would be lent a boat..."

"Lominzil, you can't!" Tathar looks at Menelglir, "Menelglir..." then back to the older squire. "You don't speak the language, you don't know the land, you don't even look like them! How could you ever find her?"

"Lend you a ship?" Menelglir asks, incredulous. "No...Lady, calm yourself. Lominizil-you are not thinking clearly. Lady Tathar has it right. You will just be captured and enslaved-and do your sister no good at all."

Lominzil looks flatly to one, then the other. Finally he says, smiling, "I imagine she would like some company, all alone in the South."

Tathar doesn't know what to say, and she looks back and forth between the two young men. "But..." she says at last. "You might not be near her. And I think... that the thought of you, also enslaved, would break her heart." These last words are spoken very quietly.

"Lominzil..." Menelglir reaches a hand out to the other's arm. "Please...you cannot do this. There is still hope. Please...at least talk to Sir Gwendion? There is hope and if you throw your life away there will not be. Not for her."

"Surely the illustrious Knight's concerns do not include the well-being of a young Girithlin maiden," Lominzil replies, his smile meant to mock. "I fear it was for my sake, Menelglir, that she decided to sail to Caldur. It is therefore my responsibility. I will find her."

"Do you know Sir Gwendion? Have you even spoken to him for more than a few minutes? I have. I am his Squire and I have talked to him and extensively so. And I say give him a chance. Talk to him about this before you throw your life away," Menelglir says.

"Please, Lominzil," Tathar pleads. "At least speak with him. If - you can always look for a boat after."

Lominzil bites his lip, dark hair slipping to hide his face. "I will speak with him," he says softly, as if to assure them of good intentions, and backs away, blindly sorting his way through the crowd.

"Lominzil!" Menelglir shouts as the young man slips into the crowd. He takes a step to follow, but hesitates and looks to Tathar. "I do not believe him for a moment. I should go after him, no?"

"Yes, please," Tathar says, looking after the squire anxiously. "I am afraid he will do something foolish."

The Girithlin squire is faster than his dumbfounded state appears - he is gone. Amidst the rain, a shred of blue turns out to be only the sun-faded uniform of a sailor, the bewildered face of another squire. But none of Farielle's brother.


	12. Chapter 12

_Farielle had hardly noticed the ship, nor the journey. Despite knowing that her people were gone, still some tiny, unacknowledged hope had lingered - as long as she was there still, where she had been taken, they would find her. Somehow. _

_She stared at the wall of the cabin she'd been taken to, and felt the heave of the floor beneath her as the ship met a wave. Gone. She was gone, and now they would never be able to find her. A single tear slid down her cheek._

_She had been too dazed to pay much attention to the journey from the dock to this place. This Tower. She had vague, confused memories of heat and shouting and an all-pervading stench. The tramp of boots. People stopping and staring and pointing. And now she was here. Where-ever 'here' was. Presumably Seaward Tower, for Yildirim had said she was held by Seaward, and this was most certainly a tower. At least she still had the paper Nisrin had brought her. _

Her room is small and not at all fancy, but much larger than a cot in the corner of a tent shared with numerous other people. And it has furniture. Farielle has pulled the low table over near the wall, so that she sits on a cushion, but can lean up against the wall. A shaft of sunlight coming through the small window catches the side of her head and shoulders as she bends over the table writing something on a piece of paper.

The bandages are gone from wrists and ankles, leaving healing red stripes in their place; but she is still barefoot. It must be by choice however, as there are a pair of soft indoor shoes near the door.

Hardly a knock precedes the entrance of the guard Khaan, perhaps a familiar face to the northern woman. Another guard remains at the door outside. "Thirsty?" Khaan asks as he enters, carrying a pitcher of water. His tone fairly drips with sarcasm as he sets the pitcher down, then next to it a clay mug that he has also been carrying. "I wanted to make sure that the future Queen of Gondor is well tended. Ma'am."

Another knock sounds at the door then, and from without comes a low chuckle. "Really, Corsair," says a deep, rich voice, accented unlike that of the Seaward folk Farielle has yet met. "You need not stand on ceremony. Let the paleskin woman eat while we speak, and not keep a cousin of your Lord waiting..."

Farielle looks up, and turns the paper over so that the writing is hidden. She looks resigned as she takes the mug, pouring it half full and drinking a little. She is opening her mouth to reply when someone else comes in, and the girl seems to brace herself against this newcomer - though it seems he only wants to speak to the guard.

"And who are you?" Khaan turns to ask Lojrul as the man appears at the door. "Cousin of who?"

He glances to Farielle. "I have heard," he says, still sarcastically, "that you said that you were so thirsty you would drink this entire pitcher and then another. All today. Fancy that."

"Cousin to your Lord," returns the other fellow with the hint of a scowl upon his features, though as his hands slip to his waist his eyes swivel to Farielle. "Ahhhh," says he, smiling widely and stepping into the room fully. "You must be the mighty prize, snatched from the bosom of the milkskin warriors, brought to Umbar in glory."

Looking her up and down with no apparent hint of shame, Lojrul's eyes narrow slightly. "A strange choice, to be sure..."

The footfalls of a light tread can be heard ascending the stairs, the echoey voice of a woman giving music to the pedestrian tempo as she talks while she walks, only slightly winded. "Yes, a surprise. I am surprised you have not already heard, actually. And I meant for you to see it first, before your brother, but such is not the case. Follow me...its just a few doors down..." It is the voice of the Tower Lady, Eruphel, and her ethereal voice at the beginning seems to find body the closer she gets to the teak door, until at last she steps into view, glimpsing the visitors. And this seems a bit of a surprise for the woman, if the look on her face is any way to judge.

"With each word my curiosity is piqued," replies another voice, also feminine. Its owner enters the room upon the heels of Eruphel. Tall and light of skin, she is not entirely different from the seated Lady of Gondor. Azradi too pauses at the entrance, sweeping her gray-eyed gaze from one person to the next - perhaps wondering which is the surprise or if it is the collection. Finally her gaze comes to rest upon Farielle. "I believe I understand now..." she observes, glancing to Lady Seaward.

"Did I?" Farielle asks Khaan innocently. She stiffens though, at the other man's stare, lifting her chin a little, proudly. Then her eyes go to the door again as Eruphel and another woman appear there. A hint of wariness enters her expression, and she darts a look at Khaan.

"Ah, I see," Khaan frowns to Lojrul, eyes weighing the man. He shrugs and turns attention to Farielle. "Mighty indeed, if she proves worthy," he says, then reaches into his tunic to pull out a sash of pink, which he throws toward Farielle. "Here. I seem to recall you liked this color."

Khaan is already turning toward the door at the sound of Eruphel's voice-he salutes as she enters. "I brought the woman water, Lady. She does not yet know how much she needs to drink in our clime."

As Eruphel and Azradi enter, Lojrul stiffens, turning his gaze to the noblewomen, and he bows lightly. "Cousin," says he to the Lord of Seaward, spreading his arms wide in greeting. "My congratulations and welcome upon your return to Umbar. I trust that matters have been concluded to your satisfaction in Caldur?" he asks then, glancing towards Azradi.

Eruphel nods sagely and silently to the Lady of Farside, before stepping into the room, leaving room for Azradi to follow behind her. First, she speaks to her own guardsman, whose name she cannot remember, though she has a feeling she should. "Water?" She looks briefly at the Gondorian woman, a little amused. "I see, Soldier. I take it you are the guardsman on watch for this hour?" Her dark gaze now sweeps toward Lojrul, in askance. This one, she remembers. "And hello, dear cousin." Her voice isn't exactly warm. "I am surprised to see you, and thank you. Barazon remains ours, and Farside has Caldur back, though I believe it may be some time before the vestiges of the Gondorian visit can be erased." Now she looks at Farielle almost accusingly, as if she may be the true reason for Lojrul's visit.

"But I am being rude. Azradi anAzulada, Lady of Farside, meet Farielle Girithlin, my guest." Eruphel says, stepping aside to let Azradi past.

Glancing once more to Eruphel's cousin, Azradi's brow wrinkles as she tries to recall the man. Whether or not she does remains unknown, however, as her answer gives no indication of recognition. "Indeed, Caldur is ours once more but has suffered greatly."

Her gaze shifts back to the Gondorian Lady immediately and she walks a few steps closer, studying the woman intently. "And you say my brother has met her, already?"

The pink sash falls across the table, and Farielle picks it up, saying sweetly, "No, I preferred the blue. This surely is yours." She stands up, giving it back to the guard. Then she looks back at Azradi, saying nothing. This woman looks differently, and a slight frown draws the girl's eyebrows together.

The pink sash falls to the floor, for Khaan does not take it. "Yes, Lady. It is my shift at the door," he says, bowing. He moves that way now, though with so many people it's a tight squeeze.

And Lojrul, for one, does not make his efforts easy, for he stands yet with his arms outstretched. "A gift, is this, to the mighty Farside?" he asks plainly, his smile fixed upon his lips. "Do you bring any such bounty for my own folk, who shed blood to secure your holdings?"

Eruphel takes a deep breath, and exhales. "Yes. I sent word that I wished him to come as quickly as he may, expecting the usual months-long wait. But instead, he came almost immediately, and I was ill-prepared." She crosses her arms, watching the two women. "He was reserved, I felt."

As Khaan moves toward the door, Eruphel holds out a hand before him to make him stay. "Wait. I would like a report of her conduct, and of what visitors she entertains. There are to be no visitations without the guard witnessing...for now." Lojrul gets an unamused look, but for now she does not answer, while talking to her man.

A grin curls Azradi's lips when the pale woman offers the pink sash to her corsair guard. "She has wit, at least."

Lady Farside glances to Lorjul but first listens to Eruphel as she speaks. It is to the towerlord she addresses her first words, an observation. "My brother reserved? Truly, I would not have guessed." The words are offered drily, but her eyes glitter with amusement.

It is then that she turns back to the one identified as Eruphel's cousin. She looks him over a moment, then says, "I am not entirely sure of who you speak when you say 'my folk' but this Lady belongs to Seaward and is not intended for Farside. She is not my bounty to share whether I would or nay."

As Eruphel asks after her conduct and visitors, Farielle darts another glance at the guardsman. And the tension in her body grows, though the only visible evidence might be that her breath comes light and fast. Still, not far beyond ordinary, and she is surrounded by people of whose motives and goals she knows nearly nothing. It would be strange if she weren't tense.

"Yes, lady, of course," Khaan says with a slight bow to Eruphel. "Here in the Tower, these are her first visitors. Otherwise, I was not assigned to guard her regularly before this, and do not know who else has seen her. As for other matters..." he studies Farielle, considering. "As I said, there was a problem with our hot weather at first, but as long as she drinks enough water, I believe that problem is solved. Of course, you could always send a healer to make sure she is adjusting well. Oh..." he frowns at the dropped pink sash. "A tailor to the King of Gondor stopped by when she was in your tent-took measurements for a gown."

Lojrul replies to Azradi: "My folk, Lady, are those of the Sand who were called forth by your brother to aid your efforts. My right-hand, Saldin, gave his life for such, and his worth cannot be matched by the Corsairs that decorate your ramparts. I have come to see with my own eyes the tribute to be levied to mighty Alphros, and to assume that there is similar in store for both Desert Tower and the children of Lajrul."

His eyes dart then to Eruphel. "Is this so, cousin? Is there an ornament to match this bedwarmer in store for my own uses?"

"Oh? Funny I had not heard." Eruphel's brow is perplexed. "Tailor? Trust Lord Alphros to take a tailor with him to battle." she mutters under her breath. "In any case, inform your relief of these orders as well." Then she turns her eye toward Lojrul, lifting a hand and crooking a finger. "Care to speak with me outside?" she asks, and steps out the doorway.

Lojrul narrows his eyes gently, but ever does his smile remain fixed upon his lips. With nary another word, he follows Eruphel outside.

Farielle relaxes minutely when Khaan is done, then stiffens again at Lojrul's description of her. She can't stop the slight tremor that runs through her body, but lowers her gaze to the table, hiding her expression.

Azradi's eyes glitter upon hearing the Desert Man's demands. Tilting her head arrogantly, she seems on the verge of answering when he leaves with Eruphel abruptly. If anything, the hard glint of anger shines brighter in her eyes. She turns her back to the door and levels her gaze on the Gondorian lady. That anger has not faded, though it does not appear directed at the young lady. "I do not know what my brother said to you, but I feel confident in offering you at least this assurance: Should he choose you as his bride, you will be his honored wife and my sister - not a slave and not a 'bedwarmer' as that man so crudely put it."

"Strange that your brother would seek to wed a woman of Gondor," Khaan says, looking to Azradi. "Though I know little of politics and such matters."

Farielle does not look up as Lojrul and Eruphel leave, staring almost blindly down at the blank side of the paper on the low table. She shivers again, and crosses her arms, then looks up as Azradi speaks. "And if he does not?" she asks quietly. Then she shakes her head as if to rid herself of that question, and says, still in a low voice, "Thank you."

"And yet you have the right of it," replies Azradi, glancing to the corsair and answering him first. "It is a political match - a sacrifice for his ambitions. If he intends to be King of Gondor, he must have a Gondorian wife."

When she returns her regard to the young woman, a touch of compassion can be glimpsed in her hard features. "Do not avoid such thoughts, but do not dwell on them either, Lady. I am afraid I have no power in your fate save what influence I can achieve through my brother."

"Everything comes with a price in Umbar; love, loyalty and alliance as well as the material. If my brother does not wish to marry you, it is possible Seaward will assert its claim over you. It is also possible Alphros will wish to, and be able to be the master of your fate."

"You would be well served if you curried his favor."

She glances back to the guard. "What is your name, Corsair?"

"A political match-then it is true that your brother is the true king of Gondor? Has Gondor accepted this news?" the guard answers, then shakes his head, with a grin. "Me, lady? I am but Khaan, son of Haldin."

Something comes into Farielle's face as the other two speak, a sadness, perhaps. She looks down again, and thus the flash of revulsion - not surely for the man, but him as king of Gondor - in her eyes cannot be seen. When she looks up again at Khaan, it is gone; her face is impassive and there is no expression in her eyes other than a faint interest in his name.

Smiling wryly, Azradi answers the corsair. "His claim is true. We are the descendants of King Tarannon and his Southron Queen Beruthiel. Some Gondorians have accepted this, some have not."

Lady Farside glances to Farielle's wrists and nods her head to indicate them. "The chafing is from being bound in camp, I assume? Has a healer tended to her?"

"Of that I am not certain," Khaan answers, staring for a moment at Farielle's wrists. "I was not assigned this post until very recently. But I will have one sent here right away. For such a purpose, the lady must be kept in good health, after all." Without further formaliites, then, the guardsman steps out of the room.

Farielle's gaze moves to Azradi as she speaks of her lineage - and she manages to keep hold of 'no expression at all'. But she can't keep a little surprise from creeping in at her other words. Some have accepted this claim? Khaan turns to leave and her eyes follow him, then return to the Haradrim lady, slightly wary now and uncertain.

In a drift of silk and sandalwood, Azradi moves closer and looks down at the blank parchment upon the table. She does not reach for it however. "Were you betrothed or leave a lover behind in Gondor?"

The girl shakes her head. Then, in a voice from which also all expression has been expunged, she says, "I am - was - not of an age to wed. There - " She falters slightly and a faint blush stains her pale cheeks. "My father had not accepted any offers on my behalf, yet."

"How many years do you have?" queries the Southron lady. "Does your House wait until the 25th year to marry?"

She glances once more to the blank paper and moves away to sit on the edge of the bed.

This brings Farielle's gaze around in open astonishment. "Yes," she says, "But how did you know?"

"I am but nineteen." The faint color in her cheeks deepens a little. "There were some men who spoke of the future, but Father did not press me to choose among them." She sounds more indifferent to the thought of any of these men than not.

"It is the custom of Adunaim," replies Azradi, looking pleased with her answer. "What you would call Dunedain in your elvish language."

"My family follows this custom as well. I have only recently come of age for such things so I certainly understand your sentiments toward these potential suitors."

The Corsair lady crosses her leg over the other beneath her skirts and absently adjusts them. "It is good to know that there are some in Gondor who still follow the old ways. And it is good to know your heart doesn't belong to another. It will be easier for you to accept your new life without such a complication."

"Do you speak Adunaic?"

Farielle is still standing, but now she sinks slowly back down onto the pillow, leaning slightly against the wall, as she had been before everyone started barging into her room. "So," she says slowly, "Even if - if your brother does - does want me..." She trails off, blushing even more, and grasps at Azradi's question with relief. "A little."

Tilting her head, Azradi studies the blushing woman - perhaps trying to read the thoughts behind such an expression. But, she merely says, "Good. My family speaks Adunaic in private." She smiles, a true smile, and adds. "Women see to the traditions of a family. I cannot entirely predict what Alphros may do or not do, but on this I insist as his sister: You must learn Adunaic and your children must speak it also. I will not see this custom fail."

That smile fades in time, and still she studies the younger woman. "Do not think your age will save you from marriage if that is what my brother desires and do not expect love to blossom."

"Then you do not follow that custom," Farielle says. "Or - only as you wish to." She doesn't say this in any tone of contempt, merely as an observation. The color has faded from her face, and she looks both weary and unhappy. Surely, she has dreamed of a marriage where she might love her husband, and he her, not this bleak future Azradi is painting for her.

She says after a moment, "It can be no harder than Sindarin."

"These are extraordinary times," explains Azradi, simply. "Among the nobles of the South love-matches are more common than marriages of alliance. And yet my brother will forgo that custom as well. You will not be the only one making a sacrifice."

"And yet there are different aspects of marriage. There is the contract of husband and wife; Lord and Lady - and there is the union of a man and woman. You should expect the former should he desire it, but perhaps the latter..." The Adunie lady shakes her head. "I should say no more. These are matters for Alphros to decide and I should not give you false hope."

She allows a silence to fall for several moments, ere she too comments on the more benign part of their conversation. "I learned both very young. I may have learned Adunaic first, though, I am not sure. Alphros might know."

"Sacrifice," Farielle repeats, bitterly. Then she is silent, her eyes downcast, listening to Azradi's words but with no more comments. What is there to say, after all?

And she finds she cannot say anything at all when the lady speaks of learning languages with her brother, but shuts her eyes to hold back the tears she will not shed. The moment of treacherous weakness passes though, and she says, her voice dull, "I have always known Sindarin. I do not remember learning it. We.. I must have learned it when I learned to speak."

"As did I," replies Azradi, her expression not without compassion but certainly not overflowing with it. "I know that many of the High Houses of Gondor still speak Sindarin as their daily language. I imagine it was much for your family as Adunaic was for mine."

"Farielle," she begins, using the woman's name for the first time. "I know a Lady who found herself in a situation very similar to yours. She too was treated with honor and in time resigned herself to her situation. She found contentment, even happiness, in her family. And though perhaps she never found that love we hope for, eventually affection and respect grew between her and her husband."

"You future does not have be as terrible as you fear."

"But I will never see my family again," Farielle says, desolately. "Nor my home. I can live without love in a marriage, if - if your brother is an honorable man, but ... " She looks up at last, "Why have you done this? If - if he is ... wishes to be king in Gondor, must - must he steal a wife? Why does he not speak with a Family. There are girls, surely, among those you say have accepted his claim, who would desire such a union." Perhaps she is trying to sound strong, or reasonable, but all that is in her voice is anguish. For the moment, under the press of grief, perhaps she has forgotten that Alphros is all that stands between her and an even more terrible future.

"He did not steal you," points out Azradi. She rises from the bed, standing tall - tall even as a man of Gondor. "You were captured by Seaward when your forces invaded my land. That you rest in such a chamber as this and have the potential to marry a great Lord of the South is a stroke of good fortune that you do not yet fully realize. If my brother did not desire a high-born lady of Gondor, you would, at best be kept elsewhere and held for ransom. Most likely you would be a marked slave and toil at the worst tasks Seaward requires - such is the way of this Tower and its Lady."

"I will leave you with these thoughts to ponder, Lady Farielle. And I remind you that your future rests in Alphros' hands - whether he marries you or not. Do not forget that."

Farielle is silent a moment, staring down at her hands, struggling perhaps to curb her emotions. Then she looks up. "You are right. I apologize for seeming to accuse him of deeds that were not his." She stands also, in the unconscious manner of a lady bidding farewell to her guests.

A ghost of a smile haunts Lady Farside's lips and she does something unusual, she inclines her brow to the Gondorian lady - albeit only slightly. Then saying nothing more, she turns and departs from the chamber - leaving the sweet woody scent of sandalwood in her wake.

The woman is gone. The door is shut, the guard is without. Farielle sits back down and takes up her pen; turning the paper over. But she doesn't continue writing, only stares at it blankly.


	13. Chapter 13

_Farielle signed her name in tiny cramped letters. There were two letters on this paper now, to her brother, closest in age, closest in heart. Although she adored her older brothers, Lominzil was her friend, her playmate, her confidante. She glanced cautiously at the door, and re-read what she had written._

Dear Lomin.

A girl has brought me some paper and a pen. I do not expect you will ever read these, but I am writing them anyways. In some way, it makes me feel you are near, even though you are not, and never will be again.

I am in a tent here in Caldur - I think it is Caldur anyways - and all of your ships are gone. Even if I could get past the guards, and somehow manage not to be seen, there is no longer anywhere to run to. Everyone here has brown skin, and they all stare at mine. It makes my skin crawl, but I try to pretend I don't notice.

I am sorry - I tried to kill myself, but I failed. I do not know if I will get another chance, but I will try to do everything I am told and pretend that I am too frightened, and maybe they will stop watching.

I hoped no one would notice, so I lay on the cot all the time to make people think it was the same when I was there because I couldn't stand any longer. And no one did notice at first. But then a different guard came in. I think he thought I was someone else, for he came right up to where I was, and I couldn't hide it, though I tried. They forced me to drink, and now I am watched.

I am so weak, Lomin. I was almost glad he saw me - I have heard of men dying of sun-sickness, and it sounded such a painful way. I was terribly afraid. I didn't know it would be so hard either; I was so hot and thirsty, I wanted nothing more than to drink until I died of it, or drown myself in a pond like the one out behind our house. Do you remember? With the swans that nested in the reeds every year? Sometimes I imagine I am sitting there again, with you, crouched in the mud trying to count the eggs. It was so quiet. Everything here is noisy. I think my head will explode.

But I must try again. A knife would be easier, if I can get one.

I am to be taken to Umbar. I tried to convince them that Father would pay any ransom they asked, but no one listened. A man came to look at me, and he told them to take the chains off. The woman said that she hadn't planned to until Umbar, which is how I know that is where I will be going. I didn't know that any Haradrim could be kind, though I don't know if he said it to be kind. He also told them not to rape me, for which I am more thankful than I can say, though the reason... but I will tell you that later.

But a young man here has been kind to me. He said that he understood what it was like, that he had been a prisoner of Gondor, and he brought me some fruit and did not mock me when I wept. I was determined not to, but I thought of Mother and Father and you, of Eruiglas and Gwaithmir, and that I would never see you again, and I couldn't stop myself. He says that the man I told you of will be fair to me, if I am to him. And that there are other men much more to be feared. He is right. I have heard it myself. This place is terrible, Lomin. I don't think all of the people are. But they truly do worship our long Enemy. A man who I think is the husband of the woman who appears to be in charge here is worst of all. His sister is the girl I told you of. She is afraid of him, and I think that I am too. He says that if the negotiations for me fall through, he will have me given to him, to give to the Eye. And several other men have spoken of the same thing.

There is a man here who was of Gondor once, but through some dark powers, was given life when he was almost dead, and now he is turned to them. He is a slave here, and seems to want nothing more. I can't understand how this can be. What if it happens to me?

Lomin, I don't know what to do. The man I told you of, the one who said I shouldn't be chained, they call him the King. But the line of Kings is broken. They want me because I am a Girithlin, and he wants a Queen who is of Gondor. I think of it, and of our heritage, and I know I cannot marry him. I cannot. Everything rebels against the thought, not least the knowledge that I would betray the honor of my house, and lose your love, if I did. But he is the only one who can keep me safe. Even the young man who has been kind to me, his name is Yildirim, won't help me. He told me so. And if this 'king' doesn't want to marry me, I don't know what will happen to me. I don't want to be a sacrifice, either, to add strength to the Enemy. But how can I marry him, and let my children grow up in this dreadful place?

Love, Farielle

My dear brother,

He wears a veil all the time so that all you can see is his mouth and chin. I wish I could see his eyes, to see if there is any kindness there, or any honor. Yildirim says that Seaward Tower, who I am kept by, is different from Farside Tower, which is who he owes loyalty to. So perhaps all Haradrim are not alike. If I must marry him, I hope he is kind, but even if he is not, he must be an honorable man or I shall not. Can one find honor in a place like this? Perhaps I am a fool even for looking for it.

But I think he is a bit of a fool, in a way. Or perhaps 'fool' isn't the right word. I don't know what is, though. When they took off my chains (I was so glad! They were hooked to a stone so heavy that I could hardly shift it, and trying to walk made the shackle-part cut into the rope burns on my ankles. So I moved as little as possible, but there are things you just have to get up and walk to. I still spend most of my time sitting, but at least it doesn't hurt to move any more.), the woman - her name is Erufel, I hate hearing it, a woman like that with the name of the One! I will just call her Fel, here and you will know who I mean - told me that if I tried to run away, she would hunt me down and I would regret it; and also, the camp is filled with soldiers, all of whom have dark skin. And he is sitting there, this man whom they call king, and he said afterwards, 'If you choose to stay, Lady Farielle, I can promise you the food will be good.'

I am not sure what to think of that. Does he really think I have any choice at all? And to be talking of food at such a time! Good food is the least of my concerns! But he called me Lady, just as if he really thought I was. I mean, I am, of course, but no one else here seems to care. Though since they took me solely in the hope that I would be of noble blood, they must care somewhat. But either they ignore me, or stare at me as if I am a slab of meat at the market, and talk about me as if I cannot hear.

I think of what my fate might be if I were not of Girithlin, and shudder for that poor, imaginary girl. I, at least, am afforded a small measure of protection by my blood. If Mina had gone to wash the bandages instead of I... I don't even want to think about what might have become of her. Somehow, I don't think they would simply have brought her back when they found out their mistake. And then I shudder for myself. I am very selfish, Lomin, for I wish that you were here at the same time I am glad that you are not. I hope you are alive.

Your sister,

Farielle

_She folded up the paper, very small and looked around for somewhere to hide it. Under the mattress maybe._

_The door swung open and she started, hiding her hand in her skirts, but it was only a maid bringing a tray of food. _

_"Thank you," Farielle said. The woman gave her a strange look, but bobbed her head in a sort of courtesy, and said something back in the harsh-sounding syllables of what must be Haradaic. When she was gone, Farielle tucked the letters between the mattress and the floor, and looked at the food. It was early evening, but she was hungry, and even though what was on the plate looked strange, it smelled enticingly. Her stomach grumbled. She ate._


	14. Chapter 14

It's evening, but early. Farielle hasn't left her room, so she doesn't know when the other inhabitants of this place might eat, but there are the remains of a small meal on the low table, and a hairbrush lies near them. The girl is standing with her hair unbound and loose about her; she has clearly been brushing it, and now is trying to braid the silky black strands. But it is fine stuff and floats about her, clinging to fingers and arms and clothes; and besides that, is longer than her arms. She's not having much luck.

Outside, a floorboard creaks and quiet words are exchanged: one gruff, the other female. Then there is a polite rap on the door.

Farielle starts a little and stares at the door. Then she pushes her hair back, holding it off her face with one hand, and says, tentatively, "Yes?" Someone is actually waiting for her to respond before coming in? How novel.

Nisrin enters lightly, glancing about the room. She is followed by a guard, who shuts the door and leans against it, idly observing the ceiling.

"Good evening," says the Haradrim girl with a small smile, her eyes flicking over the meal. "I see you supped."

"Yes," Farielle answers. She smiles too - though no expression reaches her eyes, it is friendly enough; and returns to dealing with her hair. Giving up on braiding it for the time being, she gathers it back off her forehead and twists it into a loose knot at the base of her neck, pushing a wooden pin through to hold this in place. The edges fall softly to curve along her cheeks. She glances at the guard, then looks back to Nisrin, waiting.

Outside the door there is the sound of a quick and perhaps annoyed conversation before, with a shove at the door, Khaan enters. He glances from the guard to the girl to Nisrin. And then grimaces and stands there, arms crossed over his chest, silent.

"You have such nice hair," sighs Nisrin enviously, dropping unceremoniously onto the other thick cushion that functions as a seat. She nearly jumps as the door bursts open again, and regards the newcomer with a ruffled look. "Lord Khaan," she says, then, continuing unhurriedly, "I brought you some fruit."

She brings forth a small open basket, laden with various citrus, and pushes it across the table.

Only visible by Farielle - it is difficult to see under all the brightly-colored orange and yellow rinds - a ragged scrap of paper is slipped into the woven ridges of the basket. Nisrin raises an eyebrow briefly, then resumes her friendly, reserved look.

"Oh," is Farielle's response, as if that was the last thing she was thinking of. "It is hard to take care of myself," she admits. "I can't braid it." She is moving towards the table herself, when Khaan comes in and she turns to look at him with a slight puzzled frown. "Did you need something?" she asks him.

"Lady Eruphel will want to know the purpose of your visit," Khaan says, directing this only toward Nisrin. Farielle gets the barest of nods-grudgingly so, even. "The guards must report all comings and goings with the..." he glances to Farielle, "visitor."

"Bringing her fruit," Nisrin replies shortly, the cant of her head regal and decidedly annoyed. "And for the braiding of hair," she decides mischievously. "It is what women do to look more presentable. You are not going to help me, are you, Lord Khaan? I could use one of the pins from my chambers, this is such an ugly one..."

The guard is gruff, almost to the point of rudeness, but Farielle doesn't seem to care. She nods back, then seats herself gracefully on another cushion - placed so the wall can be used as a chair back. Reaching for one of the oranges, she starts to peel it.

"I am not your errand boy," Khaan snorts back to Nisrin. "If she is to be the Queen of Gondor, then why doesn't she have maids to braid her hair?"

"Fine," sniffs the Haradrim girl, "you can sit there and watch if it so interests you."

Farielle is looking quite intently at her orange - tricky, peeling those things after all - and if any expression slides across her face at her possible future title, it may easily go unseen. Especially since no one seems to be looking at her. The last of the rind is pulled away and set neatly on one of the dirty plates, and the girl starts to eat, one segment at a time. Her gaze lingers idly on the fruit basket, as if she isn't really thinking about what she is looking at, but after a moment, she takes another orange out and turns to look at Khaan, then beyond him to the other guard. "Would you like one?" she asks them both.

"Why, yes in fact," Khaan says politely, taking the offered orange. "Thank you, miss." He looks to Nisrin, "and where do you stand on this matter-is she the queen of the Stonelanders?"

"Not yet," answers Nisrin, regarding the knot of Farielle's hair critically. "And with her hair all over the place, no. Have you a brush?" she asks the lady, rising from her own seat.

Turning sideways, Farielle leans forward across the fruit basket, to pick up the brush that is on the far side of the table from her. She has to stretch to reach it. Handing it up to Nisrin, she settles back onto the cushion, tucking her dress under her legs carefully. "Thank you," she says, gratefully, and ignores the discussion about queens entirely.

When she sits back, the bit of paper is gone from the basket's weave.

"What say you, miss," Khaan asks of Farielle. "You have been quiet on this subject. But then I suppose you have not much to offer?"

"And you," he nods to Nisrin, "what would make it so?"

'Her marriage to a King, presumably, would give her that title,' says Nisrin, methodically loosening the straight, raven-dark hair of the other lady. With a practiced hand, she runs the brush through it a few times. 'I have not seen Lord Alphros much, though.'

The Haradrim girl leans in conspiratorially towards Farielle's head, with the semblance of a girlish giggle, whispering swiftly, "A correspondence in the elvish script that I found in the ruins. Will you read it and tell me of it later?"

"Yes, of course - I want it braided," Farielle replies, smiling. "And you are not to ask him to help you, he will get juice all over. Besides, men cannot braid."

She doesn't turn her head while Nisrin works on her hair, but says to Khaan, smile gone, "When my words might have the smallest effect, I will speak."

"Of course I can braid, or at least tie knots," Khaan says, wiping his hands on his trousers as he finishes peeling his orange. He starts eating one slice at a time from the peeled ball of fruit in his hand. "The smallest effect? Dear girl, when you are Queen your words will rule Gondor-this does not appeal to you?"

And a flash of suspicion then colors the man's glance. "Later what?" he demands of Nisrin.

"Exactly," sniffs Nisrin, deftly separating the other woman's dark locks into sections. "You will tie knots in it, and it shall have to be cut off." She looks playfully affronted at the sudden drop in Khaan's trust. "_Later_ I will bring her some of my ornaments. I have a few whose jewels would match her eyes well," the girl says mildly, her lips curving in a catlike smile.

Farielle is silent, for long enough that Khaan might think she isn't going to answer. But then she says, quietly, "I am not yet of an age to wed, yet if this man wishes it, I must. I cannot speak to even a family member of the lady of this tower alone. If Alphros doesn't find me pleasing, I will be sold as a slave or given as a sacrifice to my people's greatest enemy." She doesn't speak of the third alternative - suicide.

"I will never see my family, or my home again. And no words or desires of mine will be listened to by anyone, or make the smallest change in what will happen. Where in this is there any appeal, Queen in name, or not?"

"Ah, well, none of us can control our fate, can we now?" Khaan says with a grim smile to this litany from the Stonelander. "And yet, fate it would seem to me, that brought you to us. And what good is it to struggle against it?" he shrugs.

A stern look is given to Nisrin, and he slips into the local language. "That is not what you said. You mentioned the word 'ruins,' and if you persist in lying to me, then this will of course be reported to the Lady Eruphel."

Nisrin gives a frustrated hiss and tugs sharply on a knot. "Why would I lie to you, Khaan?" she mutters angrily in the same tongue. "It is her hair that is in ruins, as you can clearly see. I dislike that you do not trust me so."

Nothing she says has the smallest effect. There is no point in speaking. Farielle sits quietly, holding her head still as Nisrin works at a snarl.

"Do not whisper in front of me and I will have no reason to mistrust you," Khaan smiles dryly using Westron again. "There should be no reason to keep a secret, after all, no? And it is my duty to ensure that I, as one of her guards, know everything that goes on here."

"Very well," says Nisrin icily, turning her attention to the thin braids she is working into Farielle's hair. "I shall announce all our girlish gossip henceforth."

"Have you any that are blue?" Farielle asks, as if Khaan and Nisrin have said nothing at all. "I like blue. Or green." She lifts a hand to feel experimentally at her hair.

"Fine," Khaan huffs in return, adding, "Women!"

"Farside's tailors will dress in you green, likely. Yellow-green, if that woman has her way of it. Horrible."

"I have plenty of blue ones," answers Nisrin, flashing Khaan a winning smile. "But yellow-green ... merciful Zimraphel, you will look sallow in such a color. Can the Tailor's heart not be changed?"

"I will look ill," Farielle says. "I cannot wear yellow at all. Clear green, or blue-green. But blue is better." She speaks as if automatically, a girl talking clothes with another girl - and incidentally a guardsman - but also as if it doesn't matter. What she wants, what she says - no one listens, and she will have a dress of puke-green, and look like a week-old corpse.

"Ask for pink," Khaan says, yawning and looking both bored and horrified at this topic. He makes a face. "Is this truly what women talk and care about?"

"Pink like one of Abernaci's elephants all dressed up," Nisrin scowls. "It is what -noble- women talk about, Lord Khaan, so that they appear tasteful and refined. Did you not know? And seeing that you have stayed so long, I would offer to braid your hair, too."

Farielle makes a face. "I hate pink." She looks at the guard out of the sides of her eyes, still carefully not moving her head. "Sometimes, we talk about embroidering," she offers, a mischievous glint in her eyes, though her face is still impassive - the first of anything like humor she has shown.

"And shopping in the bazaar," shoots in Nisrin quickly, intent on boring the guardsmen to tears. "Knitting. Raising kittens. Discussing love poetry and writing it, too."

"I could tell you one, if you liked," Farielle puts in. "I have several that I've written memorized."

"All right, all right," Khaan says, looking more and more horrified with each suggestion, until he finally holds up a hand. "You-" he points a large finger to Nisrin-"are responsible if anything untoward happens as a result of your little chat. I will be outside the door, on duty, before this drivel drives me insane." He all but runs out the door.

"Do tell," begins Nisrin eagerly, "and I will respond with the song of the turtle and the nightingale ... oh. Goodbye," the girl says, waving crestfallen to Khaan and the other guard (not to waste this opportunity for escape) as they exit.

Farielle is silent for a long moment. Then she starts to giggle. It has been so long since she has laughed - or had anything to laugh about - that she almost can't stop. "Knitting," she gasps.

"Knitting," replies Nisrin gravely, before bursting into gleeful laughter. "It has been so long since I had someone to talk to about such things! Eron does not like kittens," she points out sadly, before pulling a butterfly-pin from her own hair, its wings darting a jewelled blue, and securing Farielle's braids with it.

"Please," Farielle begs when she has finally managed to stop laughing - it has become almost hysterical by this time, but she does regain control of herself. "I like kittens. And poetry. And embroidery and clothes but let us please not talk of knitting."

She grows quiet then, glancing at the other girl and then away. And looking at the basket of fruit on the table, she says tentatively, "I am sorry... it seems a terrible thing to me, to be afraid of one's brother."

"No knitting," agrees Nisrin, folding gracefully back onto her seat-cushion. "Give me a sail and a fair wind any day."

"And let us not talk about him," the Haradrim girl says, hugging her knees as she looks furtively to the door. "I am afraid of him, but he is powerful, and strong, and my only family. And I am sure he cares - but empathy is not one of his strengths."

Farielle nods and says nothing more, though maybe her expression tells that she can't even imagine being afraid of her brother. She is quiet for a few minutes, spending the time trying to see what her hair looks like by feel. "You don't have a mirror, do you?" she asks, and then, in the same tone of voice, "What is that paper?"

"Not with me," says Nisrin, slightly surprised. "I had been longing to try that style out for a long time, you see, but my hair is too curly. Someone cut it off when it got wound about a spar."

She leans across the table, helping herself to an orange. "It is a letter of sorts that I found in the Keep, after they all left," the girl murmurs so that eavesdroppers outside the teak door cannot hear. "But it is in some elvish script, and I do not want the scholars to pore and hum over it. Will you tell me what it says? I am curious."

A letter. In elvish. It must have been written by the Gondorians. Farielle pulls it out from beneath her skirt, and spreads it on her lap, and her hands are trembling slightly. No matter who wrote it or what it is - most likely a list of supplies or something similar - it is from her homeland.

"Do something to my hair," she murmurs. "Pretend you don't like one of the braids or something." She bends her head as if to give the other girl a better look at the bottom of whatever arrangement is there, and starts to read.

"Dearest sister, if it is true that word has passed to Gondor through the Haradrim blockade, then perhaps you shall have news of us soon. We ourselves did not know that Sir Brannon and his ships had escaped but for his absence the next morning, and for Sir Imrakhor's announcement, grim but triumphant. I do not know the mind of my Captain now - not that I claim to have ever known the decision of the Council that sent us here, thinking that Prince Imrahil might be held in this place. It seems almost a lure, knowing our thirst for vengeance, and we being led by a madman."

"I do not begrudge him his Captaincy, for we are inspired to fight by something like fear, but I am afraid for what will happen to us all should his madness be allowed to continue. Yet in times of war it is men like Imrakhor Bragollach that Gondor needs most: men who know to hate and strike out against those who hate us equally. We have come to Caldur so that the Corsairs need not visit Dol Amroth ..."

"I hope you and Mother and Father are doing well. Has Losse had her kittens? You must count them for me, and we will raise them together when the Knights return, for I am certain that we will return, and the Haradrim cannot stop me from even swimming back to Belfalas once this fighting is won..."

"What is this tuft sticking out?" cries Nisrin loudly, almost petulantly, and marches over posthaste to fix the offending braid.

"It is a letter," Farielle murmurs. "From someone to his sister... he is writing while trapped in the keep, after Sir Brannon escaped. He speaks of feeling that he is led by a madman who thirsts for vengeance. Of being afraid.." Her finger traces the lines of runes as she speaks. "Afraid of what will happen if their captain's madness is allowed to continue; afraid of what will happen if it is not. He..." She stops, her face suddenly dead white.

"Bor Bragollach, is that his captain's name?" comments Nisrin, fussing superficially over the braids. "I met him once. He is a fearsome swordsman," the girl says, a note of anger and sadness in her voice.

"Imrakhor," Farielle whispers, her eyes running swiftly over the last paragraph to where the words cut off abruptly. There is a catch in her throat, and tears spring to her eyes at the same time as a smile spreads unstoppably across her face. She touches the paper gently, tracing one of the runes with her forefinger... Losse.

Nisrin pauses, leaning back from the braids, her head tilted in utter puzzlement. "You know Imrakhor, then?"

"Yes, yes, oh, a little," Farielle says, hardly attending to what Nisrin is saying. She is reading the letter again, her eyes devouring each word, picking out little idiosyncrasies so well known - now that she knows to look for them.

"Oh," says the Haradrim girl, crossing to her own cushion again. "You have not told me the end," she prompts. But it is so wrinkled and weather-beaten, that the letter itself may have been truncated...

"What?" The Gondorian doesn't even look up; hardly seems aware that Nisrin has stopped fiddling with her hair. A teardrop spills down her cheek and she wipes it away automatically.

"Is there more?" asks Nisrin patiently. "What is it - oh, you are crying." She looks embarassed.

Farielle looks up, smiling through her tears. "Oh, he asks if Losse has had her kittens and after the welfare of his parents, and ..." She bends her head to read the last phrases. 'You must count them for me, and we will raise them together when the Knights return, for I am certain that we will return, and the Haradrim cannot stop me from even swimming back to Belfalas once this fighting is won..."' Then looks up at Nisrin again, urgent and intent. "Please. May I keep it? Please. It is - my brother wrote this. Lominzil."

"Your brother?" Nisrin stares in disbelief for a moment, then smiles sadly. "Yes, I do not think it would do any harm. But you must not let anyone see it. Khaan would be upset."

"Yes, I do not know how... he must have... that you should find it..." Farielle is babbling, smoothing the precious bit of paper carefully with her hand. She wipes the tears away then, still smiling. "Don't worry," she says, returning to earth a little at least. "I am not so foolish as that." Tenderly, she folds up the scrap of paper, tucking it into the time-honored storage spot of women throughout all ages and cultures: her bodice. "Thank you," she says.

For a moment, it looks like she will burst into tears in earnest, but she blinks them away, and says, her voice returning to normal. "Losse is our cat. She had 6 kittens just before... Three of them are orange and striped, and one is grey and one is tortoise-shell, and the other is cream-colored all over." If the guards poke an ear in at this point, they will hear nothing but what the girls said they would talk of: kittens. Presumably, they have passed hair ribbons, and will move on to poetry next.

"You counted them," points out Nisrin, smiling slightly. "Do you know how to raise them?"

"Certainly," Farielle says, lifting her nose and looking haughtily down it. "You feed the mother." A moment and a grin wipes away the fake arrogance.

"Do they not get underfoot?" asks Nisrin. "All six of them!" She glances once to the open door and smiles.

"Well, that is what kittens do," the Gondorian points out. "Then they grow up and learn to catch mice."

_Nisrin laughed. Then she rose gracefully to her feet and took her leave. When she was gone, and the door was shut, Farielle took the precious bit of tattered paper out once more. She glanced worriedly at the door, then sat down with her back to it, and read over the lines again and again. Lominzil. That this he had written had ever come to her... she sent a brief heartfelt 'thank you' towards the Valar - nay, to Eru himself, who must surely have had a hand in this impossible thing._


	15. Chapter 15

It is early morning and the hall is nigh abandoned. Most of the lords and ladies that revelled here the night before are abed, leaving none but servants and guards behind. Two of those guards, wearing the livery of the Prince, pass through here on occassion, or at least stick there heads into the door. But the only real activity is the servants, some cleaning and polishing the floors and walls. The two chandeliers are lowered to the floor, some five or six serving people replacing the melted candles.

In one corner the minstrels that played the night previous are milling about, some holding instruments, others just lounging about. Leaning against one of the pillars and conversing with them is a curly-haired young man whose dress and bearing leave no doubt as to his nobility. Their conversation is just wrapping up, the noble flashing a pearly smile at the group, "I look forward to it. Masters..." This last address must be his farewell, for he draws himself up from the pillars, inclines his head politely to them, and turns to leave.

It is early morning, but at least one lady is abroad in the halls of the palace. Tathar Draudagnir Nimothan looks into the harpers' hall and glances around at each face there - clearly, she is looking for someone.

The Girithlin is on a collision course, but at the last moment he draws himself aside, away from the lady's path. He drops in a courtly bow to the lady, the motion thoughtless, habitual, but graceful nonetheless. Still, he cannot quite help raising his eyes, even in mid-bow, to inspect the fair creature to whom he bows. He arches a brow, straightening rather quickly, "Coz? Valar be praised - you are alive. I had feared..." he gives a brief shake of his curly head, "No, it matters not. My dear lady, will you oblige me so far as to tell me what you know of my sister? I understand it that you and she where in Caldur when... " A flash of his throat and tightening of his jaw are all that speak to the 'when'.

Tathar is turning away - her quarry not here - when Gwaithmir stops her. Her mouth pinches together, pain in her eyes, and she reaches a hand out to him. "I - Gwaithmir, I am more sorry than I can say. I should have guarded her more carefully." She looks around, then draws him towards a small alcove with a bench, sitting down and clasping her hands together, and looking at them fixedly.

Gwaithmir does not exactly take her hand, rather offering his arm for her to ignore, take, or lean upon as she chooses. He follows her toward the alcove, also taking a surreptious glance about. Once within the (relative) shelter, Gwaithmir places himself such that he shields Tathar from the view of any entering the hall. The lady's movements, every turn of her countenance, are followed with a keen and intense eye; after a moment of observing her discomfort, Gwaithmir reaches down to secure her anxious hands with one of his own.

""Do not apologize, lady! It was no fault of your own, I am sure. Can you tell me of what happened? If it causes you pain we need not speak of it, or not now." His voice is gentle, its tones pure, pronunciation perfect.

Tathar clasps his hand with her own; it is warm and comforting. "I did not know she had come with us," she tells him, still looking at her hands and now his. "Perhaps you know that Sir Gwendion requested I go, to aid the quartermaster?" A swift glance upward, and her gaze drops once more. "I discovered her presence only after we had landed and then it seemed safer to keep her with the healers than to send her back to sea on one of the ships."

She stops and swallows hard. "And we needed her, I will not hide it. It was terrible, Gwaithmir." Grey eyes that are swimming with tears that do not fall lift to meet his gaze. "More terrible than any war with - " she nods eastward " - could be. Then... we had been using the river, for water and for washing. I suppose she thought it safe. I - I did not think to warn her not to go alone. I should have! For that is when it happened. She had gone to wash some rags for bandages, and was coming back when the Southrons took her. They found the basket in the path. And Squire Menelglir saw them. I know that he fought valiantly, to try and save her, but there were three and he was alone. As it was, he killed one." Tathar's voice is quivering before she is done, but she doesn't weep.

Throughout, Gwaithmir merely clasps Tathar's hand tightly and listens in silence. At the end of he swallows hard, his eerie blue-grey eyes shining with tears unshed; his emotion is enough that his complexion grows somewhat blotchy. He parts his lips to speak but only a pained sigh is released. His spare hand is brought up and pressed against the back of Tathar's head, Gwaithmir leaning over her to lay a light kiss against her brow.

Upon rising he seems to have regained his voice. "You are safe now, and need fear nothing. My sister - may the Valar protect her! - is in Iluvatar's hands now. Yet, mayhap her captors will prove reasonable. We've gold enough to outweigh my fair lady sister." He reaches now into his bosom to extract a kerchief, blazoned with the arms of Girithlin, which he passes to Tathar. "Come, lady, dry your eyes. It breaks my heart to see you anguished. Break your fast with me, I beg you, and mayhap we can devise some fitting gift for the squire Menelglir. For his valiant efforts in the Lady Farielle's defense he deserves some reward."

Tathar closes her eyes as he touches his lips to her forehead, and a single tear slips down her cheek. Silently, she takes the handkerchief, drying eyes and face with it. "I hope it may prove so," she whispers. "Others have been ransomed home again..." She manages a smile, rising to go and eat with him, and her voice is almost conversational as she says, "Lominzil does not think so, I fear. He is half-crazed with grief, and blames Menelglir for not doing more. And himself for being yet trapped in the keep, I think."

Gwaithmir hesitates slightly at this mention of his younger brother. "I should speak to him, then. I fear that, in my own grief, I have forgotten his. Between Farielle's capitivity and Eruigil's...I did not think that it were possible to endure such pain and yet live. We are more resilient creatures than I guessed, it seems." His arm is once again offered to Tathar along with a smile, pleasing but rather wan. "Let us go to our meal and be wretched in silence, since the rules of good society dictate that we so do. Yet let me say to you, my lady, before we leave this privacy, that if ever you wish to sorrow in the company of another, I am at your beck and call."

"I do understand," Tathar says quietly. "You can endure. Thank you, Cousin."

"And I will say the same to you." A smile is offered him in return before they leave. "Do speak with Lomin. I am afraid he will do something rash, and leave your parents grieving for three of their children."

At this Gwaithmir grins, "I will knock him on the head myself, if I must. Now is not the time for rashness, or your fear may well prove a prophecy. Shall we?" He tilts his head toward the door, eyes taking on a glassy sheen, a wall to hide his true emotions from all but his nearest friends and particularly keen observers.

"Thank you." Tathar's smile - now public - is gracious; her hand on his arm. She walks with him to the door, and towards breakfast.


	16. Chapter 16

-16-

_Boredom was actually her greatest complaint - aside from being surrounded by people who either couldn't or wouldn't speak to her, not being home, and the uncertain, quivering knot in her stomach of not knowing what would happen to her. Farielle thought her heartbeat lurched every time she thought of Lord Alphros, and her thoughts ran in circles. What would she do if he wanted her? She couldn't marry him! But... what would she do if he didn't? _

_Sometimes, she felt surges of desperation, and she wanted to bang her hands against the stone walls and scream, or throw herself out of the narrow window. She walked up and down the length of the small room, trying to wear herself out, but the frantic beating of her heart wouldn't calm. At last, she couldn't stand the sight of bed, carpet, or tables one more minute. She jerked open the door and marched between the two guards who stood there, her chin held high._

_As she passed them, her mouth dry, her muscles tensed up, expecting to be jerked back, or even hit. But to her surprise, one of the guards fell into place behind her. The other did nothing at all. Hesitating - she hadn't thought what to do; she hadn't truly imagined she'd be let out - Farielle looked both ways along the wide hall. Not far away, a door was partly open. Curiously, she walked towards it and looked inside._

The setting Sun sends a waning spear of light into the library of Seaward Tower, and though one corner is lit by the golden rays, the rest of the room is dark. Save, that is, for one corner in which a candle has been lit, and there at a desk sits one Lojrul of the folk of the Sand.

The desert tribesman has a finger outstretched, the tip tracing beneath a line of writing as he studies a scroll, and were keen ears to listen they might pick up the murmur of his voice as he slowly makes sense of the literature.

The door is pushed open, quietly, and Farielle steps inside, stopping just on the threshold to look around. Behind her, one of the guards at her door pushes past, stopping to light another candle. The girl takes it, walking slowly along the rows of books, looking at them, stopping now and then to squint at a faded title. The guard settles himself in a chair near the door, having lit his own candle, and prepares to wait.

Eyes slip from the parchment before him, and Lojrul looks to the new entrant with interest; a smile curling itself upon his lips to reveal pearly white teeth. Leaning back in his seat, his finger still upon the scroll to mark his place, the man says in his rich voice:

"Fair evening, fair guest. You have been given leave to wander free, I assume?"

Farielle starts. She hadn't noticed the other person, and glances back to see where her guard is. He is watching with an air of boredom; and giving no evidence of giving up his seat.

Looking back at Lojrul, she says politely, cautiously, "Good evening. It is a large library, here."

Books do not interest this particular guard, resting his formidable staff against the arm of his chair - but he is interested even less in the prating of girl-talk about kittens and poetry and ribbons, and so has gladly accompanied the lady away from his everlasting watch at the door.

Lojrul's gaze roams the room a moment or two, ere he shrugs and returns his eyes to Farielle. "If you say so, milkskin woman," he replies. "I have seen few of them, and care little for their usage. A man should learn his lessons from venerable elders, and at the point of a blade; there are few to be learned in the scrawlings of scribes."

As once before, his gaze surveys the Gondorian woman, perusing her figure and garb with interest, ere he chuckles to himself. "Though," says he, "the weaker men in the Stone-land may think otherwise."

The girl stiffens under his wandering gaze, moving her candle to hold it in front of herself with both hands. "There is much that can be learned from the wisdom of the elders," she replies, neutrally. "Whether dead or alive."

A laugh at this, ere Lojrul's gaze narrows ever so slightly. "And what lessons do you suppose the dead have to teach us, milkskin queen? Is that how your folk are in the Stone-land? You listen to the words of the dead, even though their wisdom did not prolong their lives?"

"If your grandfather taught your father to fight, and your father taught you; are you not learning from one who is dead, once he is no more? There is more wisdom than length of life." Farielle doesn't back up under his stare; doesn't look around at her guard again, either. She watches Lojrul over the flickering glow of her candle.

The desert warrior studies Farielle anew for a long moment, ere he chuckles and rises to his feet; hands placed upon his hips as he advances upon the Gondorian woman. "That is a strange way to think of it, guest of Seaward. Surely I learned lessons from my father when he yet lived, but why should I seek his counsel now, in either spirit or scribbles? He cannot aid me, as doubtless he could not aid himself, when the end came. I need no lessons from dead men: I have a greater teacher."

Lojrul arrives before Farielle then, glancing down to the flame held in front of her, and blows a teasing breath as though to quench it. "I say again, woman of the Stone-land; you are a curious choice."

"I would not seek counsel of spirits either," Farielle says. "But that a man is dead does not make the wisdom he had in life foolishness. All men die." She takes a breath in as the man comes and stands in front of her, but lifts her chin against him. The candle's flame bends, gutters, then flares up again, and the girl's fingers tighten about it. And her voice doesn't tremble, though what effort it takes to keep it steady can't be told, when she asks, "Why do you say that?"

The door to the library opens without notice. The tall figure shadowed on the threshold pause, head turning as it takes in the tableau. A moment's study at most and it moves into the candlelight.

Azradi anAzulada's gaze rests upon the Lady. "Your guard said you could be found here," she states simply.

"Because," answers he, and his wide smile endures even as his eyes take a fresh survey of the woman before him. "You are soft, daughter of Gondor."

He begins to circle her, slow, patient, deliberate steps carrying him around her figure as he continues: "You are comely, do not misunderstand me, but comeliness can be found in many women. Your hands bear no callus; your arms no scars. Your legs are lean, but not muscled, and your bearing is proud but not defiant. You are a dainty, milkskin, not a warrior. And that I find curious, when I think of the nature of your future husband's sis-"

Lojrul cuts off as Azradi enters, and stands to face the Farside noble. "Ah, Lady Farside," greets he with a bow of his head-dress. "An unexpected pleasure."

Farielle turns as the man circles her, schooling herself to calm. When she has turned far enough that she can see the guard sitting by the door, she stops, and stares forward, trying to ignore Lojrul's pass behind her. She is concentrating so hard on this that Azradi's entrance is a shock - rather like cold water suddenly dumped down one's back - and she blinks at the other woman a long moment in silence.

In a swish of silk, Azradi crosses the room to stand before the young girl. She smiles graciously at the tribal man beyond Farielle. She takes the girl's arm and slowly, surely but gently turns her around to face the man herself. "My apologies for interrupting your conversation but I could not help but overhearing a bit of it. What in my brother's nature makes you curious?"

She lets loose of Farielle's arm and ever so slightly steps forward, leaving the girl a tidge behind her and to the side.

"Why, Lady," answers the man, "a man of glory and valor such as your brother, and with so mighty a champion of Umbar already at his side, should be pleased with this gift. He will be glad of her company in their bedchambers, but other than that, what use is she to him? Do the Lords of Umbar seek to win over the Northmen by presenting to them a queen of their own skin?"

And again Farielle turns to face the man - or rather, is turned - but this time, he has stopped. She watches him, still holding her candle before her breast - and perhaps she finds the taller presence of the Farside Lady a comfort rather than otherwise just now. His words bring a faint stain to her cheeks, hardly visible in the low light.

"No other use?" echoes Azradi. "I pity your wives, man. For they have an unimaginative husband if he has no other need for them than to satisfy his earthly lusts." A wry grin accompanies these words and a glint of humor, rather than malicious insult shines in her gray-eyes.

"No," she says, continuing more soberly, "The Lords of Umbar do not customarily choose an emeritus lord's bride, regardless of the political gains."

"This is Lord Alphros' choice. He feels a Gondorian bride is the better choice for a Gondorian King. I imagine he hopes to gain what any man hopes to gain from a wife: children and a family."

"Then he has chosen for looks, for certainly she has them," replies Lojrul, continuing as if Farielle were deaf, or even absent. "But if wives are to be useful, then to what use shall they be put? Can a noblewoman of Gondor cook? Can a noblewoman of Gondor fight? Has a noblewoman of Gondor the mind for tactics in battle? You, among others, have taken pains in recent years to impress upon me how suitable the women of Umbar are for these aims, and yet here your own brother chooses a wife to bear his sires only."

He chuckles. "Could it be that even as I have become a man of Umbar, Alphros has become a man of the Sand?"

People have been talking about her as if she were deaf or absent ever since she was brought to a street in Caldur, still bound. Farielle is getting used to it. The candlelight adds a warmth to her skin-tone that isn't there by nature, glints in her eyes, but fails utterly to lighten her hair.

"I suspect women, let alone high-born ladies, with such skills are scarce in Gondor," observes Azradi drily. "Or else he'd prefer one of that ilk."

"If Alphros chooses this woman for his bride, he will do so for his own reasons and fulfill his own needs - much like any man, or indeed woman, does here in Umbar."

"Twice you have shown a rather peculiar interest in the marital status and choices of the anAzulada."

To this Lojrul bows his head anew, and he spreads wide his arms in deferrence to Azradi. "And why should I not, Lady? When your brother sits upon his throne, will he not look south once more to Umbar whence he came? And in Umbar, few are strangers to the marital choices of the Tower Lords."

He sniffs then, and turns his gaze to Farielle once more, grinning widely to himself. "I wonder, Lady, if he would consent to selling her to me? As I said before, Farside and Seaward were not alone in spilling their blood for your holdings. There are folk of Desert and my own tribe who are owed not less than many of the Corsairs who fought for you."

"Would that please you, milkskin queen?" he asks finally of the Gondorian woman.

Farielle's gaze has dropped to the candle's flame, the pale yellow outer aura, the warmer yellow inner sheath, the blue arc burning at the heart. When Lojrul addresses her at last, she lifts her eyes to his - though she can't see him, dazzled by the light as she is. "No," she says. Her voice is even, carrying neither contempt nor fear.

A smile curves Lady Farside's lips when the girl offers her quiet answer and she looks back at Lojrul, arching her brow. "That is a question you must ask my brother," replies Azradi. "Though the lady does not appear amenable to the prospect. Perhaps she prefers the throne of a Queen to a tent in the desert. Women are fickle like that. Would you agree, Farielle?"

Azradi takes a deep breath and continues on the earlier subject. "As for your service yes, I did hear there were men from Desert who came to fight, and you were welcome. But I had not heard it was my brother who called for you. If it is so, then it is he from whom you must seek mercenary's pay."

"For mercenary you must be called if you demand payment for your services. As for the corsairs and my soldiers, the latter are already under my pay. There was no loot to be had, this was not a raid. Seaward and Farside fought to protect Umbar. We stopped the invasion at Seaward's fief ere it could continue to the next fief, which I might remind you are Desert's lands."

"Should I be demanding recompense from your Tower for this?"

This brings a throaty chuckle from the Desert man now, and Lojrul tilts his headress as he once more places his hands upon his hips. "If Seaward and Farside fought to protect Umbar, then why do I hear that the chief aim of the paleskins was to rescue another noblewoman from your clutches, Lady Farside? Desert fought alongside you, with honour, and not for plunder. But if plunder is nonetheless to be received by some and not others, those others can hardly be blamed for muttering about it, no?"

He sniffs then, and his almond eyes narrow. "Or do you seek to insult me, Lady? Is Desert unworthy of your consideration, and the folk of the Sand unfit to be honoured alongside the Corsairs of Umbar?"

This said, Lojrul spares another glance toward Farielle, though if her answer has angered him in any way, he shows no sign of it. "Would one great House of the Stone-land treat another so?"

The Gondorian girl frowns a little as she listens. Another noblewoman? Her gaze goes from one to the other of the Haradrim, meeting Lojrul's for a moment as he glances at her. She says nothing at all, but there is an intent look on her face, as if perhaps she is memorizing some lecture from a long-ago tutor.

A look of honest bewilderment crosses Azradi's features. "What noblewoman? If the Stonelander's true aim was to rescue this noblewoman they failed to even enquire about her."

"And if they failed to ask the Towerlords, then how did you come to know of it?"

She shifts her questioning gaze to Farielle.

"It did not escape the eyes of my soldiers that one at least was spirited away with all haste from Caldur Keep," replies Lojrul then, and his eyes return to meet Azradi's. "It seems strange to me that such a noblewoman would accompany their warriors, if invasion was truly on their minds. There is no need of games with me, Lady Farside. I serve Umbar and the Haradwaith, and need little excuse to drive the milkskins from our lands; though I find this curious."

He sniffs once more. "I would be your ally, and seek only an ally's due. Too long have Farside and Seaward stood alone in your aims, and Black have shrivelled until they are all but worthless. It is time for a new Tower to bolster the ambitions of the City of the Corsairs, would you not agree?"

Farielle's eyes meet Azradi's in equal confusion. She has no idea what woman Lojrul is speaking of; she had heard nothing of it.

Azradi snorts with derision, "You are sun-touched man, your men as well. They saw no such thing at Caldur."

"I have indulged you long enough. You try my forebearance. Another towerlord might have struck you down for such insolence."

"If ever anything was owed you, your arrogance has lost it. Furthermore, your manner here will cause me to consider what Desert does owe me. Not long ago I allowed their merchants to sail under my protection to a lucrative faire in Pelargir. And as I said, it was my army and Seaward's corsairs that prevented Maros from being invaded. Your contribution hardly compensates for that, let alone more."

It is Lojrul's turn to regard Azradi with scorn, and his gaze turns hard; feral. "I shall remember that boast, Lady, when next you have need of mumakil, and skilled handlers for them. It was the faire in Pelarglir that led to this invasion, so I am told, so if Desert's holdings were in jeopardy, then we have you to thank for it."

He straightens his back, and cocks his head to one side. "I have kept my honour before you, and even declared myself an ally, only to be met with derision. I need suffer such scorn no longer, and take my leave of you, Lady."

He bows his head-dress once more, ere he turns finally to Farielle. "One last question, daughter of Gondor: does it please you to wed this man, Alphros?"

Farielle is still listening, though most of what they have to say is beyond her understanding. When Lojrul asks his unexpected question, her eyes dart towards Azradi, then return to the man. And with the same honesty that she had previously said she did not wish to be sold into the desert, does she answer now. "What pleases me matters to no one. It is better than the alternatives I have been given."

"Again, you know the Gondorian's intents and purposes," sneers Azradi, her anger evident but controlled. "Did they explain this connection to Pelargir over tea?"

"Take care the next time you cross my path, fool." She turns away from him and sets her regard on the Gondorian girl. Her answer garners a nod of Lady Farside's head.

Lojrul's gaze lingers upon Farielle for long moments, even as Azradi speaks, and he affords himself a fresh chuckle. "A cautious answer, guest of Seaward. You are wise not to anger the mighty Lady of Farside. Have a care to tread lightly still, for as you can see, such anger springs quickly forth when even her allies dare to question her. I doubt her brother's slave will fare better."

"May the desert wind bring your fortune, Lady," says he then to Azradi, bowing a final time, "until those paths cross anew. I, fool as I am, still wish glory for my fellow folk of Umbar."

This said he turns to stride away, lest there is reason to stop.

The girl meets his gaze, and perhaps he might see there a bit of amazement that he could possibly, in any way, think she was here because she wanted to be. But she makes no response to his words, other than turning her head to watch him as he walks away.

"Arrogant goat," observes Azradi, now shaking her head. "The first time I met him my brother was Lord of Farside and he suggested our father should put me over his knee. Not to mention chided me for not being married as I should have been, in his estimation, at age fourteen."

"I shall have to investigate his usefulness. If I find him lacking, I may kill him to simply relieve myself of an annoyance. As well as to remind people the proper way to address a Towerlord."

All of Lojrul's baiting has Farielle endured without breaking. But Azradi's cool, callous words bring a shiver. She drops her eyes once more, and waits.

Perhaps Azradi can sense some of the turmoil the exchange caused in the Gondorian girl or perhaps she shrewdly guessed. "Umbar is a cruel city, Farielle."

"One must know when to be hard and when to be soft, to survive. One must know when to show respect and when one can offer insult and live. Towerlords rule supreme here and ever are those who seek to topple you. Insolence has earned that man death - but sometimes one such as he can prove to be a useful asset and so his execution is stayed with the potential of being commuted."

A nod. Farielle doesn't look up. "Why," she asks slowly, "Does your brother wish a wife of Gondor. There is nothing in our lands that is in accord. How can one so - so foreign to all that you believe and are be an asset to him?"

Azradi regards the woman for a moment then gestures to a chair, moving to take the other. "Farielle," she begins, "We are not from Umbar, we are from a smaller corsair city far to the south. In Aglarrama one family, my family, rules with the assistance of a council of lords." A look of profound sadness shadows the lady's countenance and she pauses, looking down for a moment ere she continues.

"Alphros came to Umbar to seek a base of power to serve his ambitions. He summoned me when he was on the brink of seizing Farside Tower. I came and under his leadership, Lady Eruphel and myself helped him do great things. He drove the occupying Knights from the Harondor to restore those lands to the northern tribes - who have lived there for centuries. One man had overturned the millennia-long tradition of the Towerlords and their council by declaring himself Emporer. We drove him out and restored the Towerlords. Then he decided he need more support and left his Farside throne to me - he is distancing himself from Umbar for the sake of his stake in Gondor."

"Alphros will enter Gondor as its King, the long-lost heir of Tarannon Falustur. He will rule Gondor and work for the Kingdom's benefit. He is not coming as a conqueror, he is not annexing the country for Umbar. A woman of Umbar has no place there. He needs a woman of Gondor by his side."

Farielle hesitates, then moves to sit opposite the other woman, setting her candle in its holder on a small table nearby. Her eyes are almost lost in shadows as they fix on Azradi's face, trying to take in what she is being told. "But Tarannon had no children," she protests automatically when the lady is done. "His nephew took the throne." And hesitantly, "I - would not have to live here?"

"Tarannon set his wife on a ship and exiled her because he disliked her and so did his people," Azradi explains, "She was strange to his people and a melancholy woman."

"What he did not know was that she carried his child when he exiled her. She returned to her people - a long-since fallen Kingdom far in the interior of Harad, east of Agalarrama - but in time brought her son to my home. It is he, Azulada, who married a woman of an old Numenorean family and started our line."

"And no, you would not have to live here. At least once Gondor is his. Even before then...he has chosen to live in a great manor outside of Umbar. It is a pleasant place some distance from the press and tension of the city."

"Oh." Farielle's fine eyebrows are drawn together again in a frown as she considers this. Then she shrugs it away. It won't be her doing by which Alphros' claim is accepted or not. But outside of Umbar sounds very appealing. "Nothing I know is of any worth here," she says somewhat ruefully. "Yet, I am not unskilled."

"I can scarce imagine what skills would be of no use here," says Azradi, smiling slightly. "But tell me what you can do."

"Well, I can't fight," Farielle says. "And I don't want to. And I can run an estate, but that man was right, I don't know anything of the sort of politics that are here, killing people because you don't like them or they address you wrongly. And I don't want to," she repeats, adamantly. "I know how to speak to the lords on the council - though I have never done it. I know how to make sure the steward isn't cheating us, and I can sing and paint and play the harp, and ride, and hunt with a bow, and keep the accounts, and oversee the stillroom women, and I am - I was learning to be a healer." She falters a little at the end of this recital.

"Few women choose the warrior's path, Farielle," replies Azradi, that slight smile turning to clear amusement. "And somehow those few have lead your countrymen to believe that all Southron women are mannish brutes and yet also, somehow wanton whores. I have never quite figured out how we could be both men and whores, but such is the way of misbelief."

"Your skills will be respected here and will be quite useful. Indeed, what you described is part of my role as Towerlord. It is true, that we demand our lords to be, above all else, talented in the ways of war with proven victories under his or her belt - but after achieving this position, such skills are only needed in situations such the recent invasion."

"Nay, my life is full of reports and requisitions and the complaints of my people who seem petty to me, but are of great importance to them and so must be treated as such. Will I kill those who are disrespectful? Yes. But so do I forgive the taxes of the poorest Farsiders and know the names of most of my soldier's wives."

The younger girl listens, but her mouth retains a stubborn set. Nothing she has seen so far has given her any good opinion about Umbar or its inhabitants. But all she says is, "I don't want to live here."

"Then you had better persuade my brother to look after your interests," replies Azradi, "either as his wife or not."

She allows a silence to fall for a moment. "My brother and I share your interests in the arts. Our parents felt we should have a full education. My brother is a good musician. I can sing well enough but when I touch a harp it sounds like a tortured cat. A vaguely musical tortured cat, mind you, but agonized none-the-less. It has been long since I've heard him play. Perhaps he will for you."

"My creative skill lies in drawing and painting."

Farielle's gaze falls to her hands at this reminder of the precariousness of her life. She doesn't look up again, though she smiles at Azradi's description of her harp-playing. "My brother and I learned together," she says softly. And perhaps oddly, the smile remains, perhaps even deepens; this mention of her family brings no threatening tears. "I am better than he is, but only because he wanted to be doing other things, and never would practice." Her hand makes a vague motion, lifting partway from her lap, before returning.

"How old is your brother?" asks Azradi.

"Twenty." Farielle is still smiling at her hands, though the expression is fading.

"Ah, the elder but close to your age," observes Azradi. "Alphros is fifteen years older than I am. I too was too busy learning other things to practice; but Alphros managed to practice and learn the same things that distracted me."

"He is the most brilliant man I have ever known," she says, her face transformed for a moment by her pure and genuine adoration for her brother. She sighs, "Perhaps you will see your brother again one day. If you become Queen and he is wise, he may see the benefit of being the King's brother-in-law and support him."

Farielle's face is wiped clean of expression, whatever doors of reminiscence and camaraderie that had opened shutting again with an almost audible snap. She might be able to bear memories of her brother, but the future is still too painful to face. "Perhaps," she says colorlessly, and changes the subject. "Where is the tower you live in? Farside?"

"Yes," confirms Azradi. She stands, gesturing to the window. "I will show you."

She approaches the eastern window, speaking as she does so. "It is on the eastern side of the city. You can see the tower rising to the left, it is purplish in hue. The amber-colored tower further on is Desert Tower."

"Farside's gardens are famed and extensive. It hosts a variety of plants and trees from all over the South and even some from the North. Each Tower has a fief from the fertile lands that ring the Bay of Umbar. Caldur is mine."

The timbre of her voice changes with the mention of Caldur, a note of tension creeping into it. "It was a beautiful and prosperous port before your people came."

"You know that Lord Caldur and his family were my kin?"

The Gondorian girl follows, leaving the candle to light the dim corners of the room. The sky without is still light, though the sun has set, and she follows Azradi's description, finding the towers.

"No." The single word is said quietly, as Farielle glances up at the other woman.

As Azradi continues to stare out the window, her eyes now unfocused, it is clear she is trying to hide her feelings. Even so lines of grief can be discerned upon her youthful face. "My father's mother was from House Hassad, the same Lord Caldur was born to. The kinship is close enough that such and act requires my action else my honor be stained. But more than that, I liked the man. He was a good man. All Corsairs follow a code of honor, but the Hassadites live and breathe honor. Theirs is more akin to the Gondorians code than Umbar's. I have heard stories of how my cousins turned on other corsairs during raids to stop them from harming children."

"Karim ben Hassad was no different than they. I suppose I should not be surprised he fell; he would fight to the end to protect his charge and family. But I am puzzled about the deaths of his wife and daughter. They did not choose the way of the Corsair. They chose the traditional life of women. They could not have fallen battle."

Farielle looks away, swallowing. "I am sorry," she says very quietly. She doesn't speak for a long time, staring out the window with a troubled face - they were only rumors. But there must have been some truth to them. In the end, she says, unhappily, "Lord Bragollach must have fallen into madness. It is all that I can think." She shivers, and rubs at her arms.

The mention of Lord Bragollach causes Azradi to turn and look the other woman. A deep fire burns in her eyes, banked but promising a great conflagration when it is finally set loose. "I will have paints and brushes sent to you, and canvases," she says crisply. "It will help keep your mind off your worries."

Farielle's head jerks up in surprise. "Thank you," she says after a moment, gratefully, and tries a small smile. "I am not very good at doing nothing."

"I can commiserate with you on that," replies Azradi. She glances around the dimly lit room. "I should leave." She smiles slightly, "My guards get edgy when they escort me at night. Too many shadows to hide assassins or..." her smile turns to a grin, "...insulted desert rats."

This too is so foreign. Farielle shakes her head a little, returning to the darker corner where she has left her candle. It's not needed for seeing the way, but certainly for reading any of the books. "Good night," she says to Azradi. Her guard is showing signs of impatience - or perhaps hunger, and he stands up as the girl nears. "I hope you do not have trouble."

A curt nod is all Azradi offers the lady. Already the distant, somewhat preoccupied Lady of Umbar is reasserting itself, displacing the woman. Without another word, she departs, closing the library door behind her.


	17. Chapter 17

_The night had passed slowly. Farielle couldn't sleep for a very long time. Her thoughts still ran around and around and around, circling the same things over and over and getting nowhere. But there was a new curiosity - a small, tentative thing - about the man that she might (or might not) marry. He played the harp. Somehow, he seemed less frightening for that small piece of knowledge. She fell asleep at last when the stars were fading towards dawn, and did not awaken until nearly noon._

_There was food on her table; she had not heard the servant who brought it enter or leave. Farielle found herself unexpectedly hungry, and she ate all that had been brought, then tidied herself as best she could. _

_'The library,' she thought. 'Perhaps there would be something there I could read...' But she didn't go. In contrast to the day before when she couldn't stand still, today, the girl felt as if she could barely force herself to move. _

Midafternoon - and instead of getting cooler, like any sane country, it is only getting hotter. Thankfully, the thick stone walls keep the rooms inside from heating up too much. Farielle still stands at the small, deep window, looking out. Behind her, on a table clearly shoved out of the way, is a pitcher of water and a glass.

A quiet, almost shy knock sounds from the door.

Farielle turns from the window, almost reluctantly, schooling her expression to blankness, and looks at the door. When it doesn't open, she says, "Yes?" taking a step towards it, around the cock-eyed table.

One of the guards pushes the door to, coming in to stand beside it, holding it for the visitor.

A small girl enters the room, her brown arms encircling a large lidded basket. Behind her walks a taller man - a soldier bearing the Farside raven upon his chest. He too is burdened, but with several wooden frames over which has been stretched bleached canvas.

The girl looks at the woman curiously, but soon averts her eyes. Without a word, she places her basket down some paces into the room and indicates the soldier should lean his canvases against the wall. He does so, only sparing the woman a brief, incurious glance before he exits the room, leaving the door ajar.

The girl cannot be much beyond fourteen years of age. She stares at the woman again, then seems to recollect herself and her purpose there. Touching her forehead as a sign of respect, she bows low and introduces herself. "I am Amestris bint Tiribazus anBazhani, first daughter of his second and most beloved wife Ambaz, now first wife since the passing of Shirin, may the Heroes bless her."

She takes another breath before she continues, "The Lady Azradi sent me with these gifts and wishes you find comfort in their use and possession."

The guardsman doesn't bother to shut the door, standing beside it and listening to the conversation. He doesn't look particularly interested in paints and canvases, but neither does he look like he desires whatever punishment dereliction of duty might bring.

"Oh. Yes," Farielle says. "Thank you. I am Farielle Girithlin." The corners of her mouth twitch, and she says gravely, "The only daughter of Caronn Girithlin and his lady wife Nelbrethil of Draudagnir."

"Were your father and mother blessed with many sons, then?" queries Amestris. She lifts her hands to adjust the sheer head-scarf that seems always to be in the process of slipping off. On her hands can be seen faded brown designs, like tattoos. The pattern is curvy and elegant, featuring abstract flower blossoms and fruit.

The faint glint of amusement fades from Farielle's eyes, and she touches the neckline of her dress. "Three," she says quietly. "I have three brothers." She is silent, staring at nothing for a long minute, before asking in the same tone of voice, "And you?"

"I have nine sisters and two brothers," answers Amestris. She straightens, a proud look lifting her features. "It was my mother who bore my father his sons. And I am the only sister they share with their mother. It is a fortunate position, even though I was not born to the First Wife. Such close blood to the future Patriarch of the tribe will make me a valuable bride."

Farielle blinks. "You are fortunate," she says politely, if incomprehendingly. "Are your brothers younger than you?"

"Yes, they are four years younger than me," she replies, "They shared a womb and a name day."

She wrinkles her nose, "They torment me endlessly because I will no longer play with them."

"Why?" Farielle asks curiously. "I - " She swallows and takes a breath, and starts again. "My brothers are older than I."

"I can not play with them because I am no longer a child," Amestris answers in a tone that suggests it should be obvious, "I have come of age and will be married when my father chooses a husband for me."

She pauses, hesitates really, before she continues. "They say in Farside you are to be Lord Alphros' wife. You are very fortunate. He is wealthy and powerful, and like others of the Blood, takes only one wife."

Fortunate. Farielle closes her eyes for a moment. "Yes," she says colorlessly. A pause. "You are .. " She seems uncertain how to ask her question. "It is different for you? You will marry someone who has a wife already?"

"Yes, if my father chooses a man with wives already," the girl answers frankly. Amestris bites her lip a moment, then says, "I hope to be a First Wife and to live near my parents. But they live in Umbar now and my father does not approve of the men here. He is pondering whether he should send me back to the Bazhan plains to marry a man within our own tribe."

"Yes," Farielle says again, quietly. "I can see that you would prefer to be near your parents. Perhaps you will have that pleasure." She smiles, the expression never touching her eyes. "Which tribe is yours?"

"The Bazhani," Amestris replies, looking a touch exasperated at the woman's silly question - and for a moment, like a typical teenage girl. "You do not look happy," she states, a bit defiantly and certainly outside the polite norms of her culture.

"Bazhani." Farielle repeats the word, and perhaps doesn't mangle it too badly. "You must forgive me, I know nothing of your lands or their people. Why should I have known your tribe without asking?" Her blue-grey eyes meet the other girl's thoughtfully for a moment, and the almost-smile twitches her lips again. "You are observant. Perhaps I can do as well. Is it the markings on your hands that tell?"

After a moment, she adds, "I too would prefer to marry and live near my parents."

"Because when I introduced myself I told you my name, my father's name, his tribe and my position," she explains, very carefully. "These are important things to know. It will tell you who is your friend and who is your enemy."

"In the Harondor, where my tribe holds lands, I know the alliances by heart. But here in UmbarI am less certain but my father has begun to teach me so that I do not speak to the wrong person."

She glances down to her hennaed hands. "These markings show that I have reached marriageable age. It will wear off in time. Only the men have permanent ones."

Farielle blinks, and then laughs. "You are right," she says. "I was paying but little attention. I shall remember. But it will not tell me who are my friends or who are my enemies, for the names of your tribes mean nothing to me."

"Is it so bad to speak to the wrong person? What comes of it if you do? And why are they 'wrong'?" The older girl smiles a little as she asks all these, surely very silly, questions. "You see how little I know."

A commotion can be heard just outside the door to Farielle's chamber- a rough, but clearly female, voice raised in anger, perhaps against an unfortunate Farside guard. "I shall make socks from your hide if you don't let me in!"

"If I speak to one who is my father's enemy, they might slay me," Amestris explains, her brown eyes widening slightly at the imagined danger. "And even if they chose not to kill me they would certainly steal me and make me a slave."

"I suppose it is different for your kind, you do not have tribes..." she falls silent, looking toward the door left ajar with alarm. The tribal girl turns around and takes a few steps backwards, bringing her closer to the pale lady.

The Seaward guard is heard to snicker, and then to cough. And then he pushes the door farther open to admit whoever is without.

"We have Houses," Farielle is saying, "But certainly I can speak with whomever I wish and no one will kill me. And there are no slaves in ..." She stops and looks up.

"I am His Majesty's personal tailor, now-!" The old woman bursts in through the door in a huff, falling silent as she notes Farielle's companion. The young woman who is the seamstress's long-suffering assistant trails in after her. Two very large bundles are borne in her arms.

"Ah," the old woman says simply. "I've completed your dresses." She turns an assessing eye to Amestris, perhaps making silent judgments - positive or negative - on her attire.

Amestris' parents have provided for her well, even if her tribal styles and color choices will not make the runways in Umbar's Spring Show. But even so, they are no match for the quality of cloth draped across the assistant's arms.

She takes a few more steps back to remove herself from the bustle but otherwise looks at the Tailor and her girl with avid curiosity.

Farielle looks at the bundles also, with a bit more skepticism. She, after all, was present for the choices of cloth. "I see," she says neutrally, and glances up at the guard who is standing inside the door. "Am I to try them on?"

The old woman makes a great show of distaste as she takes the first of the bundles from her sweating assistant. "Well, I had thought the colours that I had selected had been -beyond- compare but His Majesty," she begins without prelude, obviously continuing a rant begun at an earlier time, "Thought to override an expert's opinion with his own! Pah! King of Gondor my behind, couldn't even pick a complementary shade of grey on a mumakil. Why, if he makes me redo the lady-in-waiting's dresses I will shove his scepter right up his princely behind, since when is brown not a queenly colour, whyasdajskdja..."

Her tirade fades to nothing as she finally removes the last of the protective cloth and reveals a gown of blue silk, incorporating a mixture of Gondorian and Umbarean fashions, though still light enough to be worn in a Harad summer's heat. "You!" she barks at Amestris, oblivious to the fact that she could be anyone from a maid to the Lady of Seaward, "Help the whiteskin try this on, will you!"

The tailor's tirade elicits a laugh from Amestris which she tries to hide behind her hennaed hands. Thus she is caught off guard when that fierce attention is brought to bear on her. Her startlement is visible and she jumps forward, proving she is unlikely to be the famed corsair-woman who rules the tower. Her first act of assistance is to glare at the Seaward guard standing near the door and watching the proccedings with an amused look. "You!" the young girl accuses, pointing at him with one finger while the other hand is placed authoritatively on her slender hip. "Leave or turn around!"

"Oh," Farielle says, spontaneously. "It's beautiful." But she crosses her arms over her chest firmly, and glares at the guard, waiting for him to leave. AND shut the door. Tightly.

"Out! Or I shall get naked too," the old lady chimes in, giving the man extra incentive to follow Amestris's diretive.

The old seamstress's long suffering assistant clears her throat to gain attention; she has with her a large cloth, which - between her and Amestris - could be held up to serve as a temporary dressing screen for Farielle.

The guard is shaking his head firmly, though not without a longing glance at the door. And he is visibly relieved at the sight of the curtain. As much as he might have enjoyed watching Farielle change clothes, he has no desire to inflict the old seamstress on his eyes! He pushes the door shut.

The quick-witted tribal girl grasps the assitance's solution immediately. Offering the guardsman another glare for good measure, she crosses to help the other girl unfold and hold the modesty cloth.

Amestris is small even for a Haradrim, the top edge of the cloth angles down towards her, threatening to fail in its duty for the taller Northern lady. The girl looks at the cloth, she looks at Farielle and then finally the guard. She lifts it higher, elbows level with her head.

As the assistant holds the other end, the old woman taps her foot impatiently.

"Turn around," Farielle orders, not moving. Reluctantly, the guard does so, and the girl slips behind the cloth - her head pokes out above, and part of her shoulder... she moves towards the tallest end, muttering, "This room needs a screen," and holds out a hand for the dress.

"Be sure not to rip it," the old woman natters away as Farielle changes. "That is the finest silk from Far Harad! And don't play with the hems. And don't mind the hips, they're a little tighter than you left-footed whiteskin prudes are used to."

The old woman's last comment proves to be too much for poor Amestris' formal manners. She peeks, curious to see what a prude looks like and how it might differ from normal Haradrim women.

Farielle might not be able to braid her hair very competently alone, but she can change her clothes. She gives the guard a second look, and slips the simple dress she is wearing off, sliding into the blue silk, and settling it about herself. The silk is light; the color stunning. "All right," she says, giving a last tug to one sleeve.

The old woman pushes aside the cloth and stares at the dress with an audible 'hmpf'. "Well, my colour was -far- superior, but it will do," she says blithely, not completely hiding some self-evident pleasure at her own work. "That's for your daily use. Now try the other formal dress. If I catch you traipsing in this one," she says, proffering the second bundle, "I'll have you dragged off to the Dark Citadel!"

Amestris stares at the dress, clearly impressed. "It is beautiful," she says, lowering her arms to rest them. She reaches out tentatively to touch the fine silk, then pulls her hand back self-consciously.

The guard has turned to look as well, and Farielle glares at him until he turns his back once more, though he glances over his shoulder once, frankly appreciative. "Yes, it is," she says to Amestris, "And soft, too." She holds out her arm for the younger girl to touch, before hiding behind the cloth once more to change.

When she emerges this time, she is wearing something far more formal, a white sheath with a violet over-layer. There are accents of black. And the color of her eyes has changed again, more grey now and less blue.

The old woman smacks the guard, before turning to admire her handiwork once more. "It will do," she murmurs, obviously still bitter at the vetoing of her green-and-yellow dress. "I shall go and report thus to His Majesty! You," she addresses Amestris, "Make sure she doesn't do anything silly with them." Then with a nod of her head, the old woman retreats, followed by her assistant. Her grumbling can be heard as she disapears out the door and down the stairs.

Only after the old woman has left does Amestris dare offer Farielle a grin. "I cannot imagine what silly things you could do with your dresses," she says. "I suppose I can ask you to please not paint in them."

"Except the blue one, which is for daily wear," Farielle says. "I suppose I could only paint blue pictures..." She sighs, looking down at herself, and says frankly, "I prefer that one anyhow." A glance at the guard, who is looking over his shoulder again.

"If you look again, I shall throw this over your head!" threatens Amestris, brandishing the cloth at him. She glares at him long enough to enforce her intentions and then turns away, trying her best to hold up the cloth wide enough and high enough by herself. "You should definitely remove this gown, lady. It will mar easily. I am surprised you were given only two dresses. Even I have four in my dowry and I am not as fine as you are."

"Perhaps there are more to come."

Farielle's good cheer fades as she turns to remove the first dress, putting on the older green one instead of the blue silk. Carefully, she takes both to the wall, hanging them neatly. When she is done, she says to the guard, "You may turn around now," and to Amestris, "I have this one. And after all, I can hardly paint in either of those, can I?"

"No, you should not," agrees Amestris. She grins, "It would be silly."

"I wear an old one when I help my mother clean and cook. Then I change before my father comes home."

"When he comes home."

More relaxed after the exciting visit of the Tailor, Amestris looks around the room curiously. "This is a large room to have to yourself. I have seen larger rooms in Farside, though. My father says it is wasteful. I bet your husband will give you an even larger room once you are wed."

"It is large compared to the one I have been used to using," Farielle admits. "And I did not have that to myself. But small to some in my - my home." She doesn't seem to want to talk about husbands, or being wed, saying instead, "Where do you live? At Farside?"

Even after her former comments have left her mouth, Amestris' brow wrinkles in puzzlement. But the lady's question interrupts whatever road her thoughts travel. "My father is a Lieutenant of Farside. He as a house near the tower where dwell also my mother, my brothers and myself. "My sisters and his third wife remain in Harondor."

"If you are to wed Lord Alphros," she asks, "why do you live here instead of in Farside with his lady sister?"

Third wife. Farielle's eyebrows rise a little. "I see," she says, then stiffens at the younger girl's innocent question. She walks back to the window, looking out without seeing anything - save possibly a long, low house on a green hill far to the north. Flatly, she says, "I am a gift. If Lord Alphros finds me pleasing, he will marry me. If not... I suppose the lady here will find some other manner to dispose of me in." Involuntarily, she shivers, remembering.

"I see," murmurs Amestris, studying the lady's back. "No promise has been made. And yet he has bought you these beautiful gowns - no man would spend such wealth on a woman he did not want."

"But it seems clear what you must do. You must please him."

"You are older than I, but I have heard your people marry scandalously late - much as Lord Alphros' family does. Has your mother taught you a wife's duties?"

"I don't want to please him," Farielle mutters under her breath. "I only want to go home, and pretend that none of this has ever happened." She sighs and says more loudly, "Yes. Thank you. I - I would not have wed for 6 years more, in - in the normal course of things. Or perhaps longer. There is no need to hurry. But I, um, know what to do. Um. In theory." By the end of her small speech, she is blushing furiously.

"No, no," denies Amestris, taking on the airs of one older and wiser. The blush and its implications appears to have gone past her. "You know how to please a /Paleskin/ man, not a man of the Haradwaith."

"You must cook him a dinner but begin by showing him you are not afraid to slaughter a goat. Then give him the honor of the raw liver. It will make him stronger and more potent in the battlefield. Then you prepare a meal, the most complicated dishes will demonstrate your skills quite ably. If he invites you to eat with him, talk about your family, especially the women in your family. Tell him how many children they bore and how many lived to adulthood."

"After that you must show him how well you ride a horse and how long you can ride in discomfort without complaining - though perhaps Lord Alphros will not require you travel through the desert for days on end - if so that last bit will be unnecessary."

Farielle turns around mid-way through this speech, staring in astonishment. "L-liver?" she repeats unsteadily. "Raw." Then she is quiet and when Amestris is finished, she nods with as much gravity as she can assume. "I can certainly ride, and I can cook. I - never have slaughtered a goat, but I expect I can manage. At least, if a knife is available."

Amestris nods earnestly, "Yes, cover its eyes, do it quickly before it sees its death," she offers further advice. "And don't think too hard about it - especially if you played with it when it was a kid. It will make you sad and you do not want your future husband to think you are so sentimental you cannot care for him and your family."

"Oh! And don't wear your nice dress."

The older girl nods, making a mental note of all these instructions. "And talk to him of my aunts and my mother," she adds. "No, certainly not the nice dress. I think not even this one. I wonder if I could find the one I had ... before."

Picking up the cloth used for privacy, Amestris says, "You could make a cover out of this"

Farielle takes the cloth, draping it over herself. She looks down, then shakes her head, and wraps it a different way, twisting the corners into a knot at her shoulder. Then, she unties the knot, folds the cloth up and lays it on the table. "Thank you, Amestris," she says, sounding both tired and somber. "You are right, I did not know these things. It is kind of you to tell me. But I think I shall not have an opportunity. I have neither a goat, nor a knife to kill it with, and no way to get either."

She doesn't look at the guard, who has been listening to this conversation with an expression that shows him to be half-way between uproarious laughter and horror. That crazed north-woman can't be /serious/... can she?

"Oh, these things are easy to find," insists Amestris, her expression innocent. "I could provide them if you and Lord Alphros wish me too."

The girl glances out the window where the quality of the light has subtly changed, a sure sign of passing time to the observant tribal girl. She looks back to the lady. "You are tired and my mother will be expecting me home soon. If you need my assistance, just send word."

There is a sudden, intent glint in Farielle's eyes. "Thank you," she says. "I will remember." When the girl has gone, and the guard withdrawn again and shut the door, she doesn't go at once to the painting supplies, but sits on her bed and stares thoughtfully at nothing.

_The dresses. Was he trying to bribe her into accepting him? As if she was the sort of woman who - who accepted money for that kind of behavior? Or would overlook his sneers about her kinsmen if he gave her something pretty? _

_And the goat. Farielle didn't know what to believe. Amestris had sounded entirely sincere, but... a goat? Still, this was Harad. Who knew what the people here liked and believed and did? _


	18. Chapter 18

_Days went by, all much the same. Farielle was allowed to go about the tower, always accompanied by a guard, but the one time she tried to go outside, she was stopped. Few of the inhabitants spoke Westron, and most of them stared at her with scorn, or an avid kind of curiosity, staring and whispering and pointing. It didn't take much of this to make the girl keep mostly to her room._

The room Farielle is kept in is small, and sparsely furnished, but not uncomfortable. On one of the tables lies a basket with paints and brushes; beside it is a canvas, and more lean against the wall. All are blank however. Two silk dresses are hung against the wall; one is white and purple, the other a vivid sapphire blue. But the dress that the Gondorian prisoner wears is linen or some other, more plebian, fabric, and a faded moss-green color. This morning, she is sitting on a cushion on the floor, bent over the other table, writing something on a piece of paper.

Without the door stand two guards, ever-present.

Up the stairs come the stomp of seaboots accompanied by a soft, droning hum. There is a brief exchange of Haraidaic at the door, a bark of laughter from one of the guards and then a rotund, sweating figure enters. The corsair Bahazaid has not been in good odour with Lady Seaward for ... well, for a long while. His fondness of the bottle is too well known. Small wonder that he ends up with all the menial tasks like bringing up fresh water and carrying away the slops.

He sets down a part-full bucket of clean water near the door, then looks around, presumably for the one he's to take. But his gaze pauses on the room's occupant and fixes there.

The door behind Bahazaid is left open, and one of the guards idles in the doorway, watching. No matter that the corsair is well-known, no matter that he is one of their own: the lady's orders were clear. No visitors without a witness.

Farielle has little warning that the door is opening; a few words and the laughter and then the creak of hinges. She glances up, then hurriedly slides the paper underneath another sheet - blank - and lays the pen atop them both. The bucket with dirty water is in a corner.

It's clear from the way Bahazaid stares that he's not seen Farielle before - or does not remember seeing her, at least. His slightly unfocused gaze travels up and down the Gondorian before he looks to the guard. In his native tongue, he asks, "Is this /it/?" He sounds quite disappointed. "Why, there's no flesh on her bones at all! I like my women round." He gestures expansively in the air, before wobbling in stately fashion toward the corner, pausing by the cushions. One booted foot stumbles and kicks at the topmost, blank canvas.

Farielle shrinks backwards as the drunken man comes towards her. Then one of her canvasses goes sliding across the floor, and she snatches at it, escaping from behind the table to stand in front of the window, the canvas held like a shield across her chest.

"Pretty enough though," the guard in the doorway comments, also in Haradaic. "If you like 'em pale and scrawny." He lets his eyes travel up and down Farielle's body also before glancing away. "I'm with you, Bahazaid. I like my women to have a bit of cushion to them. Something to grab hold of you know."

Bahazaid stares at Farielle's reaction, then lets out a rolling chuckle. "No, no," he says to the girl in Westron, beaming widely and showing a missing tooth. "That is not how it should be. Here, I show you." Hitching up his trousers (for his leather belt is losing the fight against his massive belly), he meanders over to the precious paints. Lifting the brush, he proceeds to begin a crude outline in black that would be recognized by men the world over. "You wear this?"

The girl looks at what Bahazaid has painted, and her pale face turns red. "Stop," she says, trying to sound commanding. "You're ruining the brush!" Despite his 'helpful' attempt, she shows no signs of changing her canvas for his, and indeed, is trying not to look at it. The guard in the door is grinning widely.

"Huh?" Bahazaid does stop, if only briefly, to survey his handiwork. "Needs colour," he decides, dunking the brush into the red without cleaning off the black. "Looks good, yes?"

Bootfalls sound down the hall, their pace quickens as Farielle tells the man to stop, but to no more than a quick walk.

Then from beyond the door, the voice of Yildirim, addressing the guard, "Good day, sir," he chimes pleasantly, "How is your little prize this day?"

"Stop it!" Farielle says again, taking a step towards Bahazaid. She looks past him at the guard, who is doing nothing to help, but tries anyways. "Make him stop!" The guard spreads both hands in an attitude of helplessness, still grinning, and the girl, anger overwhelming embarrassment, drops her canvas and kicks Bahazaid in the shins as hard as she can. Considering that her shoes are soft and only for indoors, this may not hurt too much.

The guard still outside can be heard answering the newcomer. "She's well enough. A bit more color to her just now, I'd say." He laughs.

Bahazaid halts, brush dripping red across the carpet, at the newcomer's call. "Not much of a prize, this one," he grunts in his native Haradaic. "Scrawny as a goat. Showing her what a woman /should/ look like. Reckon I should paint her too?" He turns back, eager to apply the brush to the shrinking Farielle, who he has of course been ignoring - after all, she's just someone's Paleskin pet.

Only to find that she isn't shrinking. As the Gondorian woman's boot connects with his foot the unsteady Corsair wobbles, stumbles and then slides, crashing down on the wooden floor like a sinking battleship with the wind knocked from its sails. The floor (including Farielle's feet, perhaps?) is now as red-spattered as a crime scene.

Yildirim peers around the guard, frowning at Bahazaid and his escapade, "Friend, were it not for women who will trade gold for companionship, you would have little idea of what a woman does much less should look like," he quips in their language.

Then in Westron, Yildirim continues, "Come now, do not stress the rabbit overly much, else its heart overrun and stop. And then your prize, scrawny perhaps but worth some weight of gold, will be lost truly. And your Lady none the happier for it."

"Get out!" Farielle says in a fury. "GET OUT!" She lifts her eyes to Yildirim beyond the guard, and her anger is not lessened for seeing - or hearing - him. To the guard, she says imperiously, each word clipped, "Get him out of here, NOW."

The guardsman looks around the room, shaking his head, but takes a slow step inside, leaning down to take Bahazaid's arm. "Enough, enough, look at what you've done to the floor, man," he says. "Leave off now. Get the bucket and be done with you."

Bahazaid lies still for a moment, letting the breath return to his heavy body. But then comes the mocking voice from behind him. "Gold?" he answers in the Haradaic tongue, outraged. "You think I waste /gold/ on women when they're running around for free? Silver, maybe," he reflects consideringly as he pushes himself to his knees, and then his feet.

And then someone grabs at his arm. He shrugs the grip off as might a dog, but grunts. "Bucket," he answers, changing back into the Westron. "Very good idea." Grinning from ear to ear he lifts the bucket of dirty water and with the unthinking ease of one who's spent many years swabbing decks, sends a measured dose flying toward Farielle and her precious canvas (so much inferior to his own crude handiwork!). "All clean now," he tells the enraged foreigner cheerfully.

"Your reputation is well deserved, Bahazaid. It is unfortunate, such splendid force of will could not be displayed in Barazon," Yildirim comments, leaning against the frame of the door.

"Or at the least, I saw you not there. Your rum too heavy too carry it and yourself the distance?"

Farielle is drenched, the canvas splattered. Enraged, she brings the canvas up to smash it over Bahazaid's head, reaches to drag the empty bucket from his hands, and aims another kick - not at so innocuous a spot as the man's shins. And if she can, she will bring the bucket down on his head as well.

Bahazaid looks pleased at Yildirim's initial compliment, even if the rest of the sentence brings his brows up in a puzzled frown. "I go where I am sent," he manages at last, all the explanation anyone will get for why he was not in evidence in the recent war. Issues of drunkenness and jail would not enter into it, of course.

He doesn't turn his head from admiring his handiwork on Farielle, though, which is just as well. The canvas is rammed down over his head, his bald pate tearing a jagged hole, but the rest of Farielle's attack does not go quite as planned. Even in a mild state of inebriation, Bahazaid is very protective of his jewels. His hamlike hands remain firmly clutched round the handle of the bucket, which is held like a shield to deflect the Gondorian woman's kick. "You are wet," he tells this flower of womanhood in almost fatherly Westron. "You take these off, hmm? I could help." And then, in a burst of rapid, petulant-sounding Haradaic, he queries his own kind, "Did the Lady say we /had/ to leave her unmarked?"

"Your opinion or no, she has value to those more important than the pair of us combined," Yildirim replies also in his tongue, stepping fully into the cell casually, "And besides, would you test the semantics of a tower lord?" he asks, lifting his hand, showing but four fingers upon his left hand, "They are subtle and quick to anger." His eyes glance briefly towards Farielle, but naught else.

"Yes," the guard says flatly. "Enough." He comes around, detaching Farielle's hands from the bucket, and shepherding Bahazaid out the door. "And bring back some rags or something. I don't think Lady Seaward will appreciate paint stains on her floor."

Farielle stumbles backwards a step as the bucket is pried from her grip, but she still looks as if she would like to kill Bahaz bare-handed - her eyes are flashing, her face is flushed with fury, and her breath comes fast. She ignores Yildirim entirely this time, clenching and unclenching her fists as she watches the drunkard.

Creases appear on Bahazaid's bald forehead as he tries to decipher Yildirim's speech. Perhaps that's why he stands docile as a lamb as he is herded toward the door. At length he responds to his countrymen in their native Haradaic, "Pity. She needs a man to teach her how to act like a woman."

Nodding at the guard's final instruction, he switches to Westron, "You make her clean this up, yes? Is good for her to have work." Chuckling at the furious Farielle, he wanders off, starting to hum a little ditty about 'A sailor started painting, a girl who looked so dainty ...' It might be a while before those rags arrive.

"So, things seem to be going well for you..." Yildirim remarks to the girl dryly.

He says to the guard, his words hidden from Farielle but his tone clear, command, "Your hand in this is clear, so go fetch a mop and a bucket of fresh water. And some towels. If she catches disease, your name shall be first upon my lips to Lady Seaward."

The guard's eyes widen in alarm, and he turns hastily to leave. The second man who had been outside, steps into the doorway to watch.

Farielle's anger has not died down. If anything, it seems exacerbated by all this talking that she doesn't understand. And most definitely, it is made worse by the knowledge that she looks ridiculous, with dirty water dripping from her hair, and the front of her dress sodden and splotched. She turns her glare on the young corsair. "And you! You could have stopped him and you just stood there!"

Furiously, she looks around the room as if some weapon might be hidden there - some loose leg she could wrench off a chair and relieve her nerves by hitting Yildirim over the head as well.

Yildirim does not respond, as she scolds him. He reaches at his neck, removing the ever-present tome that hangs by his side, setting it against the frame of the door. With a quick, deft movement, he slips free of the sandy cloak that is wrapped around his shoulders, easily large enough to envelope the woman. He folds it and lays it across his arm, "Here, remove your clothes and wrap this around you before the guard returns. I will allow you some modesty, certainly he will not."

"I will have your things washed and dried."

Farielle is shaking as her anger ebbs away, leaving her with the cold aftermath. She stares at Yildirim for a moment, then nods jerkily. "Turn around?" she asks him, her voice suddenly very small. She reaches to take the cloak, putting it over her shoulders, then turns around herself, trying to wriggle out of the dress, and at the same time keep the cloak from slipping. When she is done, she wraps the cloak about her as tightly as she can, then turns back to the corsair. "Th-thank you."

"Of course," Yildirim says, turning as she takes the cloak. He moves to the door frame once more, leaning against it, "No thanks are needed. There is no honor in belittling the weak nor any glory."

"Not v-very many of your people seem to agree with you," Farielle says, clutching the cloak about herself, maybe for the warmth, which might ease her trembling.

He turns slowly, smiling, "A little dirt on your face and you would pass well for street urchin now."

"I have no towel but the cloak, and it is far from clean but dry and warm."

"So, your days seem... interesting."

"If that's wh-what you want to call it," she replies, "Wh-when everyone comes and - and stares at me as if I am in a zoo! And all of them like they wish I h-had no clothes on." The red anger has faded from her face as well, leaving it pale as usual, but now the color creeps back, and she looks away.

"And he ruined my canvas." The black and red lines stare upwards from the white canvas that lies on the floor. There is another that still leans against the wall, mostly unblemished - except for some spots where dirty water is drying.

"I do not know what these... zoos.. are, but perhaps this is one of the differences between Towers I mentioned before."

Yildirim pauses, looking the woman over for a time, then he picks up the ruined canvas and tosses it out the door. As too with the one used as a weapon.

As he does the minor work, he speaks, "I am sorry I cannot do more for you. There are many barriers placed between you and I. I have but the goodwill of Seaward that allows me to continue to visit. Even that fat oaf could have me barred from this place if he had a mind to do so. So, I could not stop him, but I did try to appeal to his pride, before you began to attack him. Again, my apologies that more could not be done."

"Zoological Gardens," Farielle says. "Where you keep strange animals to be looked at."

As he speaks, she nods and sighs and goes to sit down on the edge of her bed. "I - I am sorry I yelled at you," she says at last, in a subdued voice. "You have been kind to me. I should not have repaid that with anger."

Her eyes follow him as he works, landing on the book by the door and lingering there. Absently, she asks, "What happened to your hand?"

"Let us say that when I warned you to be truthful, it was not from a lack of knowledge in being false."

Yildirim brushes the stone as he can to whisk what water he can towards the edge of the wall, "It is one thing to torture a man towards some end, information or breaking his will. But to do so simply because you can..." he shakes his head, "So petty."

"Ah, it is well enough. Perhaps luck will shine upon me and I will have a chance to end his life for this trouble."

"I do not lie," Farielle says, simply. But she stares at him, horror in her eyes, and shivers again. Her gaze falls away, back to the book. "And - and the book?" she asks. Surely there can be no terrifying secrets hidden there. "What is it?"

Yildirim's brow creases, and he gives her an odd look, "It is a book of how people should live, behave. Your Knights have a book of a similar type, their Codex of the Swan. It is like that, only less fanciful and useless. Information gathered from hundreds of men, and women, across the lands of the south."

The girl has looked back up at him in time to see his frown. "Why do you look at me like that?"

"Oh, I see. Yes, my brother has that, but I think he would not say it was useless." She pauses. "I spoke with a man here, who said nothing could be learned from those who are now dead; it all is foolishness. But the wisdom a man has while he lives does not become foolish only because he dies."

"But is it not foolish to have wisdom but ignore it?" Yildirim's eyes tighten some, "I have read that Codex, and under compassion, there is no mention of burning families alive. Under truth, no words of breaking parlay to attack your foes. Justice has no words of hanging men from keep walls by the neck. Humility?" he snorts at this.

"Umbar can be crude, it can be cruel, harsher than the desert winds. But it puts on no airs of what it is, and does not judge people for more than what they are."

He lets out a great sigh, freeing the tension from his shoulders, "But, you have been through too much this day for a lecture from me. I will fetch some dry clothes and some fruit. Are you well enough to be left alone for a bit?"

Farielle shivers again and looks sick. "I - I had hoped that was but a tale," she whispers. "It was such a despicable thing. I did not want to believe anyone could be so vile." Bowing her head under his words, she hugs herself in the overlarge cloak.

"Yes. I will be fine." She doesn't look up; but in the distance, the footsteps of the returning guard can be heard, hurrying back with cleaning supplies.

"Then, I will return with a fine snack," Yildirim says, a warm smile forcing its way back onto his lips. He picks up the tome, dusting it off, wraps it around his slender frame, and looks back to Farielle, he opens his mouth to say more but, perhaps embarrassed by his own outburst, gives a swift, supportive nod and then takes his leave, locking the door behind him.

_Farielle held the borrowed cloak about herself tightly as the servant the guard had fetched mopped up the floor. There was nothing to be done about the ruined canvas, and she avoided looking at them. Perhaps worried by Yildirim's words, the guard hardly even leered at her. _

_The two silk dresses hung in their place on the wall, but Farielle refused to look at them either. Her emotions kept swinging wildly from one extreme to the other, and just now, she felt she never wanted to see or hear anything to do with Lord Alphros again in her life. She would wait until the other dress had been cleaned and returned, and wear that._


	19. Chapter 19

The sun is high in the noon day sky, but thankfully it's October and not mid summer in the southern lands. A knock on the door briefly signals that someone will enter the quarters of the would-be Queen, and then Khaan's big hands push the door open. "Lunch," he says gruffly, escorting a servant in. The serving girl sets down a tray on a table.

Farielle turns from the window when the door opens, watching the girl bringing lunch. "Thank you," she tells the girl.

The girl, of course, under Khaan's sharp eye, says nothing in return. She ducks her head and hurries out, while Khaan turns to slowly take a good look around the room.

"I suppose they are taking you seriously for a queen with dresses like that," he says on seeing the garments.

Farielle glances at them, and grimaces faintly. "I don't know," she says. Her tone says, 'I don't care,' though she doesn't say that. She crosses her arms, almost defiantly, a set look on her face. Not wearing them.

"Spoiled child, are we now?" Khaan snorts a laugh. "You'll soon be singing a different tune, no doubt. Stonelanders," he grumbles, going on. "Fool of a man that Farsider is, wanting a Stonelander queen. Might have to tie you to the chair. Or bedpost."

The girl lifts her chin at him. "And what concern is it of yours?" she asks him. The food steams enticingly, and her stomach growls faintly.

"Well, if you are sold to slavery I might be the lucky one to take you to the auction block,' Khaan sneers. "Or better yet, brand you.' He chuckles. "But no doubt you would like that-another excuse to throw yourself down a flight of stairs or some such dramatics. Stonelanders," he snorts again. "So heroic. And pitiful."

What little color there is drains from Farielle's face, and she looks away from him, perhaps to hide the fear in her eyes. "My father would pay for my return," she tells him. Moving towards the table, she picks up a piece of bread and begins to eat it, with as much composure as she can manage.

"Ah, now that is something," Khaan says, looking gleeful at the girl's sudden lack of color. "Should this King of Gondor deem you not up to his standards, then you can perhaps pin your hopes on a ransom. Your family is rich, then? Noble heritage?"

A swallow. Farielle nods and takes another bite. Surreptitiously, she steps away from him a little as she eats.

A figure appears at the door. No knocking, no announcement. It is Lady Eruphel, resplendant in the accoutrements of her office, much more so than her field armor and clothing. As she steps in, her footfalls are barely ticks upon the stone flooring. With a mere glance, she takes in the situation, her eyes falling first to Farielle, and her plate. "How is the food?" she asks, as anyone might ask an honored guest.

"Lady," Khaan says, saluting. "She has not eaten yet. Though I see that the Farsiders have left her dresses for her audience with their King-claimant."

Farielle hadn't heard anyone coming, and all her focus is on the guard - rather like a rabbit might watch a fox, with wary attention. She starts at Eruphel's unexpected question and her eyes drop to the plate she has hardly begun to eat from. At Khaan's words, she perhaps changes her answer a little. "It has been good." A pause. "Thank you."

Eruphel smiles softly at Khaan, tilting her head slightly. "King," she corrects, her eyes cutting toward Farielle. "Though, he's seen her at her worst. If he liked her then, he can surely only like her better when properly dressed." Now she turns and steps closer, noting how the food is untouched. "I won't make you eat it. If you think King Alphros prefers a waif, more power to you. But if it makes him not like you, you should consider the consequences of him not choosing you."

"Ah, we were just discussing possible consequences of -King- Alphros rejecting her," Khaan smirks. "I would be honored to take her to the slave auctions if you deem she is too much trouble for Seaward. These Stonelanders...they are all so delicate and fussy."

If Farielle had ever learned to hate, that would be in the glare she directs towards the guard. She disdains to answer his accusation, eating the last bite of bread, and leaving the plate where it is. For now at least.

Eruphel nods, satisfied as Farielle finishes her meal. "I have heard reports of a...corsair? Who was drunk?" she mentions casually, as if leaving the rest unfinished would make it too irresistable not to finish. Eruphel moves toward the prisoner's bed, testing its quality with her rear.

"I have heard rumors of that as well, but it was not while I was on duty and I cannot get a full account of it from the guards whose shift it was," Khaan says. He works not to laugh outright by at the look of hatred from the woman, adding, "Perhaps she can give you the details. But...what will you do with her when Alphros rejects her? As surely he will...she is scrawny and stubborn and foolish. Do Stonelanders like that in their women?"

Whatever of fear or defiance or hopelessness has been in Farielle's face is entirely erased by sheer fury, though it only shows in her eyes, and in her hands clenching into fists. And maybe her voice. "He ruined my canvases!" she says, and favors Khaan with a glare filled with all the anger he has earned, plus that leftover from Bahazaid. On the table behind her are the paints sent from Azradi, plus the remaining, unspoilt canvas.

Eruphel smiles slightly at Khaan's reply. "In the end, if he chooses her, likely her bloodline will have been her best feature." She chuckles lightly, amused and surprised by Farielle's sudden outburst. "Ah! Ruined your canvasses." She glances at the gifted paints. "Did he tell you his name? And how exactly did he ruin them?"

"And if not?" Khaan prompts Eruphel. "Then what?"

Farielle blushes. "He.. painted on one," she says, looking away. "And ... um. I hit him over the head with the other."

"I don't know his name. He came to take away the dirty water and dishes." She blushes still more deeply.

"If not, we will see what value she still has, Khaan." Eruphel answers the guard with a smile, then looks at Farielle. "So...he only ruined one canvas. And you ruined the other." Her visage seems even more amused. "What did he paint? Was he...any good?"

Eruphel thinks for a moment, then looks at Khaan once more. "You are very interested to see her to the market. Are you hoping to purchase her yourself?"

"A canvas makes a poor weapon, I'm afraid, miss. Though the Stonelanders do not teach their women to fight..something about weak blood, I hear. So no wonder."

"Her..? " Khaan blinks in surprise at the question, then looks Farielle up and down like a piece of meat at the butcher's. "Too scrawny. Hips not sturdy enough for child bearing." No, likely he's interested in skimming profits off her sale, though he does not say that.

On someone so pale of skin, even the faintest flush shows up vividly, and Farielle is far past 'faintly flushing'. "Nothing." She crosses her arms defensively over her chest at Khaan's scrutiny and says to him, still tart from the leftovers of rage, "Then give me your sword, and next time, I will use that."

"Nothing?" Eruphel points to herself, then to Khaan, then herself again, as if trying to figure out what that was in reply to. Then she takes it a step further. "Do you mean he painted nothing? Or was he not..." she gets lost in the confusion of the question, or lack of.

Khaan is stiffly silent at the suggestion that he give the woman his sword, falling back into a military demeanor.

"He wasn't any good," Farielle mumbles, staring at the floor, her face flaming.

Eruphel's voice is flat now, and brassy. "What did he paint, Farielle," she says, the blushing embarrassment obvious. "How badly do I need to punish him?" She looks up at Khaan, and then nods to him. "Step outside, and close the door." She looks back at Farielle, certain her command will be obeyed.

It is, without question. Khaan leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

Farielle looks around as if there may be some escape, but there is none. The door is shut, the guard without; she can't leap out the window; there is nothing in the room to hide in or behind. Save the bed, and Eruphel is sitting on that. "A - a woman," she answers at last, reluctantly. "With nothing on. He said..." She trails to a stop once more. After a moment, she adds, "He didn't touch me. He just ... w-wouldn't go away."

The Lady seems less amused. "Did he say she was you?" she asks, her voice softer now.

As if beginning to talk was the hardest part - or perhaps the softer tone of the other woman's voice encourages her - Farielle continues with less difficulty, though she still doesn't look up, and her face has lost nothing of its redness. "He said it ought to be, because I am - I am not ... very large. He would show me what - what a woman should look like, he said."

Eruphel takes a deep breath, then exhales. "Shall I have him whipped? I will have him whipped, and you can witness it so you can know satisfaction. Surely vengeance would taste sweet."

The girl's head jerks up and she stares at Eruphel. "No," she says, shaking her head. "No - I ... I kicked him, also."

"Ah." Eruphel says, looking levelly at Farielle. "Do you feel then that a kick is sufficient to impress the lesson upon him?"

The memory of the guard's face, laughing and smug, and his ambling departure floats through Farielle's mind. She looks away. "I will hit him with the chair, next time," she offers feebly.

Eruphel laughs lightly. "He has been trouble before. I think he needs more than an angry kick to learn his place. And? A public punishment will remind others of how they should be treating you. However..." Eruphel stands from her place, and takes the empty plate. "You will watch."

Farielle looks sick at the thought, shivering. "Why?" she asks almost in a whisper.

Eruphel turns toward Farielle, her eyes narrowing. "If you are to be Queen someday...Lord Alphros' Queen, you will have to be strong. You will be forced, at times, to command a punishment such as this, to hold your position, and your life. But to command such a thing, and not stand witness, will look cowardly and weak in the eyes of many." She turns toward the door, and when she arrives, she knocks, to signal the guard to open it for her. As she waits, she adds, "You will watch, and you will look strong." It sounds more a command than a prediction.

The girl listens to this, then perhaps surprisingly, nods. "My father said much the same to my brothers," is her comment. "I did not think it would ever apply to me. I will do this." She looks no less sickened for her resolute tone, and she is still trembling. Blindly, she turns towards the window again, not waiting for Eruphel to leave - and perhaps she wishes she hadn't, after all, eaten her lunch quite yet.

_After the Lady was gone, Farielle began to pace up and down in her room, faster and faster - as if she could run away from her thoughts. The sun reached its peak and headed back down into the west, towards evening, but she didn't notice it._

Without the door, murmurs of discussion may be heard as a newcomer discusses gaining entry in polite, but insistent tones, with the guards stationed there. He wins out, and a knock interrupts its occupant. Tiribazus stands there patiently until his presence has been acknowledged, a hand resting on the sheathe of a scimitar, the blade of which has been relinquished upon gaining entry into this foreign tower.

The sounds of restless walking inside stop. There is a silence. Then a quiet voice says, "Yes?" The guard pushes the door open, allowing Tiribazus to enter first, then following him into the room.

Farielle is standing in the middle of the room, looking towards the door.

Answering the summons, Tiribazus steps past the guard and into the room. "You are the northern lady, the one some call the pale lady?" His haste to speak his mind has altered his enunciation, giving away his extra-Umbarean origins and hinting that the Common tongue is not his first language, however perfectly he uses it.

Folding his hands behind his back, he considers these words, looking into the room, then at the two dresses dangling beside the woman. His dark gaze returns to her face as he waits for affirmation that she is who he has come to see.

"Yes." The girl stands perfectly still, her eyes moving beyond Tiribazus to the guard, then returning. Her hands are clasped behind her; she is very tense though she tries not to show it, and indeed, manages to keep her voice from sounding anything but calm and polite. "I am of Gondor."

"Of Gondor," Tiribazus repeats, barely disguising his contempt. "You have been speaking with my daughter, yes. She has come here on the orders of the Lady of Farside Tower. I wish this to stop." His brow creases as he considers the woman, his natural impulses when in the presence of someone so lovely being suppressed in favor of paternal impulses.

"Such warmth, no?" says another voice then, and were eyes to stray thither, in the doorway is revea;ed a fresh figure. Farielle will know him as Lojrul, but it is Tiribazus that draws the Desert man's eye.

"You wish to groom your Lady's future kin yourself, instead?"

The girl tenses still more as the man comes closer. "Your.. daughter?" She sounds a little puzzled. "Oh.." There is a pause while she tries to remember the name. "Am - Amestris? Yes. She came here once." She considers the man a moment. "If you wish her not to come, perhaps you should speak with the Lady of Farside." A bitter twitch to her lips. "I have no say in who comes or goes." And as proof of this, Lojrul speaks from the doorway, drawing Farielle's gaze - and a flicker of unease across her face.

"I would not displease my lady with so direct a request, even if she would grant me the wish of a father. But Amestris is not familiar with the ways of cities, and though she is now a woman by our customs, I cannot help think that learning both to be an adult and a citizen of Umbar in the same year can do anything but overwhelm her..." Tiribazus turns to consider Lojrul standing nearby, and failing to recognize the man, he returns his attention to the lady, still remaining a respectful distance apart from her and just inside the room.

"Fatherly prudence indeed," agrees Lojrul to Tiribazus' words, his own spoken evenly. "But you do not answer me, fellow of Farside, and by the look of you a fellow of the Sand also; why is that?" The Desert Tower man truns his gaze upon Farielle anew then, and he bows his head in greeting. "Milkskin queen," says he with a wide smile, though the eyes are less warm than the lips.

"I am not a queen," Farielle says, her voice low. She doesn't, quite, shrink under Lojrul's look, forcing herself to stand straight and proud. To Tiribazus, "You- you care for your daughter." She swallows once, shutting her eyes, and takes a deep breath, letting it out before going on. "But I do not know what it is you wish of me. I - no words of mine are harkened to, in this place. If the Lady wishes to send her again, she will not ask permission of me."

"She seems to find your company intriguing," Tiribazus begins to answer Farielle first, turning to respond to Lojrul. "Of the wilds, yes. The sands do not pile so high where the Bazahni call home." Considering Farielle's response once more, he remains silent for a while, letting the conversation ebb and flow as it will.

Lojrul's gaze flits back to Tiribazus for a long moment, regarding the Farside Lieutenant keenly, ere he bows his head a second time to Farielle. "A queen you shall be, should Alphros accept you. Is it not wise to practice airs in advance, for when the joyous day comes?"

Farielle's face pales at Lojrul's comment; though it might not be so obvious to these men who are so dark of skin to begin with. But she doesn't say anything to him, returning her attention to the other man. "I found her interesting also," she admits, with a faint brief smile. "I know nothing of your people or your customs."

Tiribazus pauses, contemplating a response to her explanation. "And have you lost all hope that your family will not reclaim you? Or do you think it best to accept that they do not desire your return?" Considering the harshness of this line of questioning, he frowns, looking into the Lady's eyes as if attempting to determine what sort of mettle she is made of.

Looking between the two subtly, Lojrul says naught, but watches their eyes with seeming nonchalance.

A flash of anguish, swiftly hidden, and replaced by something that is not quite anger. "My family would pay anything," she replies, with a quiet fierceness. "I have told them this. I - " She looks away, staring at the wall without really seeing it. "No one listened." Farielle looks back now, meeting Tiribazus' eyes levelly.

"If your family values you so little," Tiribazus begins, allowing the thought to simmer in the air. "Forgive me, my Lady... Lojrul." He turns, having planted a seed of doubt. "There is much that needs attending."

"No, forgive me," replies Lojrul, bowing lightly. "I did not mean to intrude. Though, perhaps it was fortunate. Surely the pale folk of the Stone-land will not handle the matter lightly. Has any word been sent to or from Umbar that this jewel of Gondor is among us, and in the keeping of Lord Seaward, who so recently marched to war against them?"

"I agree," he adds softly then, perhaps unexpected of the fellow. "There is much to which you should attend. I think this matter is among them, Corsair of Farside. Will you not stay, and speak further with this lady to know what peril may be gathering in answer for Alphros' 'gift'? I can leave or tarry as you will, but if I linger I may have words you would be glad to hear, in counsel only."

But this is a dart that will find no purchase. Farielle smiles - for once, it is a true smile, not merely a movement of her lips, serene and confident. In this one thing, if in nothing else. "I know what I am worth to my father," she says simply. "If I am not ransomed home, it will be for no lack on his part."

Her eyes move to Lojrul and she is silent again, a faint frown growing on her face as the man speaks.

Tiribazus quirks a brow at the mistaken identity, but refrains from correcting the man's assumption. Instead, he bows cordially and retreats from the room, attending to these other matters to which he alluded.

His questions unanswered, Lojrul watches Tiribazus go, tilting his head-dress to one side thoughtfully. A shrug then, and he slowly turns to face Farielle. "And what of you, lady of Gondor? Will you speak of such matters to me, or shall I too quit the room?"

The guard straightens as Tiribazus leaves, then leans back against the door once more, listening, as is his duty.

"I do not know what I can say," Farielle answers honestly. "I know nothing of what happens, here or without." She is still frowning, though, looking at him as if trying to puzzle out his motives and meanings.

Nodding as he acknowledges this, Lojrul faces her fully, and his manner relaxes. "I can appreciate your position, pale lady. But will you speak then about your capture, and its circumstances? If your ransom can be achieved, then perhaps no more blood of either the Haradwaith or the cities of Gondor need be spilled over it. I have asked you this question before, and I do so again in earnest: Would that please you?"

Farielle's carefully blank expression cracks a little as he mentions her capture and she glances away, then looks back as he continues. "Please me? To go home? How can you ask that? Do you think I am here because I want to be? If you must have it still more plainly, then yes. It would please me." Please. What a frail, feeble word to bear so much weight of longing.

The man stands silent before her for a long moment then, ere he nods lightly. "I would expect no less, from so proud a flower that springs up in even the land of stone. Do not think I mock you any longer. But understand, lady," he adds, stepping closer and lowerign his voice. "these walls have ears, as they say, and it would be well for the lordlings of Umbar to think I speak to you with only that in mind. Forgive the charade, if you will, for I have more sober thoughts than mere jibes at your appearance."

"This marriage with Alphros seals our lands into war unending," he adds then. "I shall not lie to you and feign sympathy, but if you can trust none of that you can trust that I would not see a hair harmed on your head if it will save my folk from further bloodshed."

The guard stiffens to alertness, stepping forward. "Your pardon, sir," he says, politely enough to a cousin of his lady. "It would be better if you did not speak so I cannot hear your words."

The frown returns, creasing between Farielle's eyebrows. She manages not to step away as Lojrul comes nearer. "I - do not understand," she says at last. "War?"

Impressed at the guard's hearing Lojrul straightens then, and nods. "You are right, I should not. Alas that the Lord Seaward is not at liberty to speak with her captive in person. I wager she would have interest in the words of her cousin."

He sniffs then, regarding Farielle once more ere he turns and walks from the room.

_Farielle stared after him, still frowning. War? What did he mean? _

_For a while, this thought drove out the others that had been filling her mind. War. She thought of Caldur, of her brothers; of reports she had heard from Osgiliath. Orcs and trolls, and worse. They had always been at war, her people, though little of it had reached the manor in the green trees that was her home. She had known nothing of the immediacy and horror of it; of the thick smell of blood, the groans of men hurt so badly they couldn't keep silent, the sound of hatred. Not until Caldur - she shuddered suddenly and gasped for air - the room felt too small, too hot, she was smothering... She turned for the window again, and the small breeze that whispered in off the ocean slowly calmed her._

_She was precious to her family, who would do everything they could to find her, and more; but she was no one of importance to the realm. Gondor would not go to war for her: one woman not yet to her majority and of no noble lineage. It was true she was related to the Prince of Dol Amroth, but so distantly that it could hardly be considered more than a faint connection. _

_But how could marrying her bring war? A bitter smile twisted Farielle's mouth. It was more likely that her family would disown her, did she wed and bare children to a man of Harad. Though this man, Lord Alphros, his lineage might be acceptable, if his sister spoke truly. If he was descended from King Tarannon... For a minute, Farielle tried to think out the bloodlines, then she shook her head in defeat. How could she know? It was impossible - perhaps the record keepers in Minas Tirith would be able to puzzle this out, but she could not. _


	20. Chapter 20

It's just after noon of the following day, and everyone has been called to the courtyard. Farielle stands at the front, her guard behind her, her face white and set. The inhabitants of the tower stand in rows, watching, wondering. Whispering together and staring at the Gondorian girl. Feeling their stares, her shoulders hunch a little, and she holds herself still straighter and stiffer.

For the corsair Bahazaid, known to himself as 'the Magnificent' and to others simply as 'that drunken sot', the day has not been going well. Payday and a night spent at the dice and the bottle resulted in an unintended late rising and an aching head to boot. Now, as he staggers out of the barracks, he definitely looks the worse for wear. His shirt is creased and stained, his flabby jowls unshaven and his bald head shining. Oh, and did I mention that his steps are wavering? When a pair of burly guards grab his arms it takes him a moment to grasp what's going on. "What'sh it?" he mumbles blearily. "M'I wanted for shomething?"

the inhabitants of the Tower gaze upon the courtyard waiting for something to happen, the sound of marching feet is suddenly heard from the direction of the Tower's main gate. It takes only a few moments for the armed column to appear within the courtyard. Dressed to the nines, the men are led by non other than the Fleet Master himself dressed simply in comparison to the House retainers at his back. Scanning the courtyard, the Lord of House Sikkiyn quickly spots the women Farielle and the accused man Bahazaid being held by the pair of burly guards. Nodding to himself he steps forward to address the man.

"Bahazaid. You are charged with afronting a Lady's honour and personal possessions. Previously to these dishonourable actions you also made Seaward and in fact the entire City look weak before the paleskins by attending your match during the festival drunk. While I waved this latter charge in the name of mercy, I am now reinstating it due to this recent reckless behaviour. As punishment for these actions, I deem you to be given twenty five lashes."

Turning to the burly guards, he motions for the man to be brought forward.

Farielle swallows, and shuts her eyes. Then she opens them again, staring straight forward expressionlessly. In the folds of her dress, her hands slowly clench.

Farielle is, at first, ignored. There are pale faces enough amongst Seaward's slaves, after all. But the sight of Seaward's Fleet Master is enough to rouse even someone in Bahazaid's unhappy state. "Lord Sikkiyn," he manages by way of greeting, bowing from the waist (and with the guards to stop him falling over). "I can exshplain. I-" And then the import of what's been said hits him. "I- I- I don' remember Gondor," he manages at last. "Surely thish ish all a mishtake."

Yet the guards pull him inexorably on. As they drag him past Farielle his gaze fixes on her pale one and the blank look changes to fury. Clearly he at least remembers her. "Paleshkin trash," he manages in Common, and tries to spit.

It looks as if the Fleet Master is about to dismiss the mattter and leave the scene and Bahazaid to his punishment until the accused responds to Mirdanath's words. "A mistake? There were witnesses to your actions in Pelargir, Bahazaid. Your fight did not go without attendees. They saw your stumbling mess that you gave for a fight against that Blue Squire. Every time you step off Haradaic soil, you represent Umbar. You represent Seaward! You are to do us proud! Not make us look weaker than the worms which crawl beneath one's feet." The Fleet Master's words are full of fury and he seems on the verge of shouting but he restrains himself into a cold toned anger.

"This woman standing here today bore witness and suffered from your actions. Unless you question her honour as a Lady, which is a serious accusation, there can be no question as to your guilt." He pauses now for the moment and then raises a finger. "Do you have /anything/ to say for yourself before your punishment is dealt?"

To all outward appearances, Farielle ignores Bahazaid and the spittle that lands at her feet. But a fine, imperceptible trembling has set up, though she still stares straight forward.

"Lady?" Bahazaid repeats, incredulously. "She'sh a Paleshkin!"

Mirdanath's final question gives him pause; he looks at the Fleet Master with an abject puppy expression, as though he were about to grovel. But then they reach the newly set up whipping post and he swallows hard, then straightens. "Can take thish like a man," he mumbles and then, as the two guards begin to bind him to the stout wooden post, he adds plaintively, "Where'sh the rum?"

As the drunken Corsairs speaks to the Fleet Master, Mirdanath begins to walk towards the man being strapped to the wooden post. Once he is within an arms reach of the man, he leans forward. "I am your superior, Corsair. My word is law. I am your own private God. What I say is, is how things are. And so when I say she is a Lady. It doesn't matter if she is an shark, lion or a monkey, shes still a Lady because /I/ said so. Are we clear, Corsair?" Without waiting for a response, he now turns away and begins to walk towards the gates of the Tower. But not before...

"Corsair Bahazaid has asked for an additional five lashes. Athir, Asad, give the man what he wants." As the words are spoken by the Fleet Master, the two largest figures step forth from the column with wound up cat-o-nine tails and grim expressions upon their faces. "I won't lie, mate." The man known as Athir speaks up as he and his accomplice approach the tied man. "This is going to hurt... a lot..." And so the two begin to deal out the punishment to the wayward Corsair. Lash...after...bloody...lash...

Bahazaid raises his head to stare miserably at the Fleet Master. His hopes that this might all be a bad dream are dissolving rapidly. "Y-yesh," he manages to get out.

And then the Fleetmaster's henchmen are stepping up, and the first lash is swinging ...

Bahazaid has plenty of spare flesh to take the blows. At the first lash his eyes start to water, but he does not scream. Rather, he gives a soft moan. Another lash, another moan, a little louder ...

Farielle's fingernails dig into her palm, and she stares at the air in front of her - facing Bahazaid, but not actually quite looking at him, though no one looking at her could tell. What little color there is in her skin is gone, and she swallows. Swallows again. And does her best not to listen or to see.

It's hard not to listen. Each moan is just a little louder: aagh ... aagh ... Aagh. But then, of a sudden, blessed silence. Athir and Asad have not yet finished their task, but the lump of bloodied flesh before them sags at the post, held up only by the bindings at the wrists. Bahazaid the Magnificent, weakened by blood loss and the alcohol still running its course in his veins, has quietly fainted.

The girl clenches her teeth as well, and the faint tremor grows - but not enough for any other than the guard behind her to notice. Unseen by any around, he moves closer, and takes her arm in a grip that is almost cruel. But the pain of his fingers digging into her skin helps Farielle keep from fainting herself, until Bahazaid is silent, and she can stare over his body as if he isn't there.

And finally, it is over, and she can return to her room. She manages not to run; to walk with stately dignity.

_Seaward's name was apt, and its location offered those who dwelled in its tower a luxury coveted by those who dwelled among the lower building in the city: Breezes from the sea. All the Towers caught the coveted breezes; but Seaward was the first. Old Numenorean works dotted the city still, but stacked between were the less sturdy mud-brick buildings which absorbed the day's sun and radiated it at night. Even at night; even in the autumn, the city sweltered in places where no breeze could enter._

_As Farielle climbed the stairs, holding herself back from running up them - running and never stopping - one of these small winds cooled her face and seemed to brush away some of the turmoil of emotion. _

And that pleasant sea-born wind - warm in fact, but cooler in comparison to the earlier heat - enters Farielle's chamber, fluttering the curtains gently. The lady herself is not here, but another occupies the room nonetheless. Amestris of the Bazhani sits on a chair near the window. Sitting with back against the chair-back, her legs swing in the air slightly and she kicks her heels idly as she glances around the room...waiting. A covered basket (set carefully to not disturb the lady's things) sits on the table.

Soft footsteps can be heard without, and then Farielle enters her room, stopping in the door as she sees someone there before her. "Oh," she says, smiling a little - it doesn't reach her eyes; the small muscles there are tense and unhappy - "Hello. Ames - Amestris, yes?" She comes in farther, the guard - who had stopped outside, coming in after her when he hears her speak to someone.

Amestris' dark gaze rests thoughtfully upon the fine gowns hanging from pegs. Her thoughts are rather rapt, it appears, for the lady has opened the door full and seen the girl ere she reacts.

Amestris jumps up quickly and bows. "Lady Farielle," she greets, with perhaps a subtle edge of excitement in it. She glances to the guard when he enters but pays him no mind, shifting her gaze back to the Gondorian lady. "I have brought you more paint," she explains, reaching for her basket.

"More paint?" Farielle sounds surprised, but she glances at the basket and nods. Her eyes slide up to the girl's face, then away again. "Thank you." She hesitates. "I - your father came here," she says after a moment. Her face is very still, almost wooden in its control of expression. "He said he does not want you speaking to me."

Nodding and smiling when her words are echoed, Amestris lifts the cover of her basket to reveal two small clay pots as well as a number of fruits, cloth bags and something leafy. The fragrant aroma of spices fills the air until she drops the cloth once more, having removed the clay pots.

Then she pauses, frozen in place (though that metaphor would have no meaning for her). Worry shadows her eyes when she lifts them to meet the lady's gaze. "My father visited you?" she asks, her voice smaller. "And he said that?"

Farielle reaches to take the two pots, and put them on the table near the others. She turns, meeting Amestris' eyes. "He said he didn't want you to come here, and I told him I have no say in who comes or who does not; that he should speak with Lady Farside. He said he would not." She hesitates, her tension that of someone bracing herself. In a low voice, she says, "I am glad you came. I - I like talking to you. But I don't want you to get in trouble."

The pots, it might be noted, are of far lesser quality than those brought before. These are simply clay, unglazed on the outside and instead of a ceramic lid, they are covered with ragged squares of stained oil-cloth, tied on with a bit of roughly twisted hemp.

The hint of worry in Amestris's voice becomes obvious upon her dusky features. "My father said nothing to me." She bites her lower lip. "But why doesn't he want me to speak to you? Is because you are from the north?" A petulant note enters her voice with those questions.

The older girl looks down, running a finger along one of the pots. "Are these yours?" she asks. Then, "I don't know. He didn't tell me." Amestris may sound petulant - Farielle is trying to hide any emotion at all.

"No, they are not mine," Amestris replies, rather absently, "They are for you."

"This is ill news, Lady," she says, twisting one of her fingers fretfully and staring off into the air. "I came to help you but it is a terrible thing to disobey one's father."

Farielle nods, looking down at the pots. "Then... then, you must go," she says, barely above a whisper. "You must not get into trouble because of me." Despite herself, a note of wistfulness creeps into her voice. "I wish you might have stayed. I have no one to talk to here."

With furrowed brow, Amestris appears deep in thought as the lady speaks. It is a few moments after she stops before the desert girl responds. "My father did not forbid me himself," she says, slowly, and glances towards Farielle. "But to know his wishes..."

The worry gives way to a sort of resolution and the girl stands up straighter. "But nor would my father wish me to break my word," she says, her voice stronger. "It would be dishonorable. I said I would help you and I will. Then I will speak to my father and if he still wishes me to stay from your company, I will obey."

"But..." Farielle's face looks lighter, despite her broken-off protest. She smiles almost shyly. "If you are sure." And now that she can relax a little, curiosity tilts her head to one side. "Help me with what?" Her fingers still trace the curves of the small clay pot; she isn't thinking about what she's doing.

"To help you convince Lord Alphros you are a worthy wife," Amestris answers brightly, her own manner and mood lightening now that a decision has been made. "It must begin with the goat. The kitchen yard is behind the tower, I will bring the goat and the means to slaughter it there at the appointed time; but you must invite the Lord himself, I can think of no way to lure him there. It should be in the morning because it will take most of the day to butcher and cook the goat. I will help you with that as well."

"After you have fed him the liver, invite him to return that evening for dinner. You should put on your best gown to serve him."

Farielle's fingers still. She stares at Amestris, her mouth half-open. "I ... you ... I ... You are serious?" she stammers. "But.. but what if he doesn't like liver? Then he - he will only be angry with me, and I - I will..." She falters, and shivers, looking suddenly sick and rubbing her arms with her hands.

Her eyes move to the gowns, and a frown grows on her face, displacing whatever thoughts had made her so afraid. "I don't want to wear them," she mutters rebelliously.

"Why would he not like liver?" queries Amestris, genuinely puzzled. "It will make him stronger."

"Even if, by some strange chance, he does not like liver - he will be pleased with your ability to slaughter goats and your desire to impress him."

Amestris glances to the gowns, worry returning to her expression. "Lady," she begins earnestly, "You must accept your good fortune. Your sadness blinds you to it. You act like a slave already, so powerless. Is that really what you would prefer? To be the lowest of the lowest? To wear the mark of servitude until the end of your days? To be the woman of any man who wants you rather than the honored wife of one man?"

"If this is what you truly want then...then..." she throws her hands up dramatically, "the women of North are crazy!"

"I want to go home!" Farielle bursts out. "I want to see my parents and my brothers, and choose which man I prefer, not - not have to try and make one like me because if he doesn't I will be slaughtered like - like your goat!"

All the terror and loneliness and struggle to accept of the past weeks rushes out in one wild flood. "A slave. What do you think I am? What power do I have? The only reason I can walk around this tower is because Lord Alphros doesn't like to see me in chains!"

She stops, breathing hard, tears running unheeded down her face. "And he doesn't want me, anyways," she finishes unhappily, her voice much quieter. "Only my lineage." She blinks hard and scrubs at the tears.

Worry is still present in Amestris' expression but so is compassion. She steps closer to the lady, unconsciously extending her hands as if to comfort her. "Lady I know the source of your sadness, but it changes nothing," she says, her young voice softening, "Rage at the wind but it will still sweep your tent away, heedless of your desires. Will you sit upon the burning sands, bitter at the wind or will you find another place to shelter?"

"You have power, lady, but it seems as if you refuse to use it out of spite, a rebellion against those who brought you sorrow. But you are only spiting yourself."

"If he is interested in your lineage, then you have power. The merchant who possesses the precious jewel coveted by the buyer is in a powerful position. He decides whether the coveter will receive what he desires and what price he will pay."

"B-but if he decides he - he doesn't want me after all..." Farielle says, wiping her eyes with one hand and reaching out with the other, before letting it fall. "If I w-wanted him to like me, that is one thing, but - but to have to pretend be-because of what will happen if he does not... " She isn't weeping any longer, but her voice still shakes. "If the merchant can only sell the jewel to one person, and if he cannot convince that man to pay the price, he will be thrown in prison and lose all of his goods..."

"Do not think of what will happen if you fail," advises Amestris, "Think only of what you need to do to make your life better."

"I only remind you of what will happen if you do not marry Lord Alphros because you seem reluctant to save yourself and I hope it will inspire you to act."

"You are full of too many excuses. What does it matter if do not want him to like you? You hold yourself in pity and are so consumed with it you cannot see what is before you. Any woman in Umbar would be giddy with her good fortune even if she were merely his /concubine/ and here you are angry and bitter that you might /have/ to marry him and even angrier that you must to avoid a worse fate - instead of rejoicing that you have a way to avoid such a fate."

Amestris sighs heavily and steps over to the table, reaching out for her basket. "It is difficult for me to hear this. I would take a husband like Lord Alphros in a moment, even if he only wanted me to create an alliance with my father. But if you are certain you wish to do nothing for yourself, I abandon my plans and obey my father."

The shock of being in a place filled with cultures all so very different from her own is nearly as great as that of being jerked unwillingly from one life to another. Farielle is doing her best to cope. She swallows hard, and tries a wavering smile. It doesn't last long, but it was there. "Wh-which day should I ask him to come? For - for the goat."

It is with sadness that Amestris' hand clasps the handle of her basket, but when the lady asks her question, she leaves it. Forgetting herself, the desert girl throws her arms around the lady to embrace her (or attempts to). Beaming, she says."You make my heart glad, lady!"

"Any day you and Lord Alphros choose; send me a message and I will be there with the goat and knife."

A pair of strong arms fling themselves around Farielle and slightly bemused, she hugs the younger girl back. "If I send it to Farside, will it reach you?" she asks, uncertainly. "You said you don't live there." She glances over Amestris' shoulder at the fatal dresses again, and asks rather abruptly. "Why do you think he sent me those?"

"You truly cannot guess?" Amestris says, pulling away from the taller woman. She glances to the dresses and smiles. "He honors you. You are beautiful for your kind and one of your esteem should dress in such finery."

"Oh." A little color tints Farielle's pale face. "I - I thought," she begins, but doesn't finish, instead smiling at the younger girl, a little more successfully than before. "Thank you, Amestris."

"What did you think?" asks Amestris, a half-smile answering the lady's first true one.

Farielle blushes a little more and looks away. "I don't know," she says vaguely. "That - oh, that he tried to buy me with them, like - like I was a ... one of those women." The blush deepens. "I know nothing of men. Not... not like that. I have only seen him once and all he said to me was that his food was good, and insults to my kinsmen."

Even Amestris blushes a little. "Those are things I know little of, as well, and do not need to know until I marry."

"But I see no insult in a man giving a woman beautiful gifts when he wishes to marry her. The women I see on the streets who are /that/ sort, do not look as if any men give /them/ such things."

"Yes," Farielle says, slowly. "That is true." She sits down on the bed, gesturing the other girl towards the chair. Or the cushions on the floor if she prefers. Hesitantly, she asks, "Do you know him at all? What is he like?"

"I have never even seen him," admits Amestris. "Mother and I did not join father in Umbar until long after he had left and his lady sister became ruler of Farside Tower."

"I have heard from those who once served him that he was a great lord though perhaps eccentric. Often he would disappear into secret vaults deep within the Tower to study - what he studied, I am unsure of."

"Oh." The older girl sounds disappointed. "I hope he is kind," she says almost to herself. Louder, "I wonder why he wears that cloth over his face."

"The veil?" asks Amestris, rhetorically, lowering herself to one of the cushions on the floor. "I have never heard a reason for this. But it is not uncommon in Harad for some to do so. There are some tribes where the women do by tradition. But why one of the Blood would do so? I do not know."

"I have heard," Amestris adds, speaking very carefully, "Some speculate that he is disfigured."

"But," she assures hastily, "It is mere rumor. He does reveal his face to his closest friends and his family and they deny this rumor."

"Disfigured?" Farielle looks horrified. "I hope not!" She is quiet a moment, trying to remember, but most of the first - and only - time she had seen the man is rather foggy in her memory. "I think," she says slowly at last, "that he can't be missing his nose, at least... the shape, you know." She moves her hand in front of her face, indicating the bump a nose would make under a piece of cloth. "I don't /remember/ it looking odd."

Amestris giggles, covering her mouth with her small brown hand. "I think if he were disfigured it would be a well-known fact, not a rumor."

"His lady sister is not beautiful but nor is she ill-pleasing. If they look alike, I think you will not be too terribly disappointed in his features."

Farielle is silent - by the frown on her face, trying to picture Azradi's features on a man. Then her face smooths out again. "It is silly, isn't it?" she says, not quite laughing, but smiling again. "There are other things of much greater importance than how a man looks, but..." She looks at Amestris, lifting her hands helplessly, her smile widening.

"No, it is more important if he is kind and can care for you and your children," agrees Amestris. "But one wants to be pleased when they look upon their husband's face, though, even if he is not the most handsome man in the village."

"My mother once told me that you will be treated as you treat others. She warned this was not always the way of things, that there are some who cannot be trusted - but often, if you wish kindness, you must offer it."

"It would be nice," Farielle admits. "I hope he is not /too/ ill-looking." A little troubled, she agrees. "And that he is honorable, and kind." Then she smiles. "My mother said something much the same, I remember. When I was a little girl. Your mother must be a wise woman."

"She is very wise," confirms Amestris with much pride. "As is my father."

She glances to the window, where the sky has now grown fully dark. She leaps up from her cushion, alarmed. "I must return home!" she exclaims, her face growing frightened and worried. "I am not allowed to be out by myself after dark!"

"My mother will be so worried."

Farielle's smile fades and she looks down at her hands where they lay in her lap. In a low voice, she says, "Do you need one of the guards to go with you? I can ask... " Her mother - worrying - something splashes onto one of her hands, but she ignores it, saying, in a voice that she manages to keep from wobbling, "Thank you for coming."

"Yes, I would," replies Amestris with relief, looking to the lady's guard. "Though he should not take me to my door else my family will know I was here. Best I be safe in fact and accept punishment for seeming to have gone abroad unescorted."

The guard, listening more carefully then he seems, nods his head. "Aye, I'll find someone to take you, lass."

Amestris plucks her basket off the table and while she passes the bed, pauses to place a comforting hand upon the lady's shoulder. "Be strong, Lady. I will come when you call."

Farielle nods, but doesn't look up. Nor does she speak again, perhaps not trusting her voice. And when the other girl has gone, and the guard is outside and the door is shut, she gets up and goes over to the window, and stares unseeing out at the dark.

_Her mother. What was her mother thinking? And Father. Farielle swallowed, blinking hard, but tears slipped down her cheeks despite her efforts. 'Oh, Mother,' she thought despairingly. 'I'm so sorry!' _


	21. Chapter 21

It's a cold evening in the Edhellond, with the wind whipping a merciless rain against the manor house, and lashing through the trees. Inside, it is warm and comfortable; a gracious, kindly home - but the aura within better fits the weather without. A woman in her 50s sits beside the fire, some embroidery held limply in her hands and untended to. She is staring into the flames, and her eyes are red-rimmed, though dry.

Nearby, unable to settle to the book lying open on a table by his chair, her husband stands and stares at those same flames, his hands behind his back. Then he turns and strides across the room with a restless, furious energy; brought to a halt by the shut door, he looks at it blankly for a moment, before turning and coming back. There are no visible signs of grief as in his wife, but his face is haggard and old, despite his bare 63 years.

There are voices without, their words unheard over the tumultuous rain. A few moments later the door opens, admitting a lash of rain and a tall, dripping figure. High leather boots are dashed dry on the rug, the sopping cloak merely held out with a gloved hand. It takes a little length of time and the snapping of the man's fingers for a servant woman to come running and relieve Gwaithmir, for he it is, of the vestement. Gwaithmir's eyes rest unwavering on the rather sad forms of his parents, making no effort whatever to cover the sadness in his eyes, nor his frown. Pulling the gloves from his hands, Gwaithmir discards them on a chair, advancing towards the fire. His eyes never leave his father, until he draws near. "Father..." There is hope in the word, and agony, but Gwaithmir stops well short of the venerable man, and bows to him.

As if a spring is coiled inside him, Caronnen Girithlin whirls around at that hesitant word. Unhesitatingly, he clasps his son in his arms, staring rigidly over his shoulder, his face - unseen - working. "Gwaithmir..."

Then he steps back and frowns at the lad. "If you..."

"Caronn," says a gentle voice behind him. "Leave be. Oh, Gwaithmir!" It is a soft wail, as his mother takes his father's place, all but throwing herself into his arms. "I have missed you so."

Gwaithmir's eyes grow wide at his father's show of affection, and it hesitantly that his own arms are brought up to clasp his father's at the elbows. Tears spring into the lad's eyes that must be blinked back as he is rebuffed, trembling jaw steadied with sheer nerve to accept his father's rebuke with some composure.

The Lady's voice destroys all such walls. Her wail seems to grant permission for the tears to flow freely. Gwaithmir clutches his mother to him tightly, hands tangling one in her hair and one in her dress. "And I you, naneth," answers Gwaithmir quietly, letting his chin rest on his mother's shoulder, rocking them both back and forth.

Caronnen looks away, the muscles in his jaw bunching and relaxing. He swallows hard. "Son," he says gruffly, putting his hand on Gwaithmir's shoulder. "Have - have you ... any news? Lominzil, is he ...?" He doesn't put words to his fear, that his rash youngest son will have done something - well - rash.

Nelbrethil straightens at last, wiping her eyes. "We have needed you, Gwaithmir," she says, simply, and leads the way to their chairs, drawing one near for him.

"I am here now," Gwaithmir first answers his mother, tone more apologetic than reassuring. He sits in the offered chair, crossing one foot over his knee and anxiously jostling it. Gaze remains steady upon the fire, not daring to rise to his father's. A few false starts precede anything useful, "Locked up by one of his superiors, for his safety. I have kept an eye upon him as best I can. I will ask Gwendion to increase his guard, if it would please you, father." Now he looks up at the older man, not supplicating or hopeful, but resigned and numb.

The older man hesitates, then shakes his head. "If you think it is sufficient. I - I will leave it to your discretion." He comes and sits down, one hand clenched into a fist on his knee. "We will have to make arrangements for Eruiglas. Do - you know if his body was recovered?" His voice is over-controlled.

Nelbrethil's anxious eyes cling to her son's face. "And what - what of Farielle?" she asks him, daring to say the name they all have been thinking, but none have spoken. "Have you heard anything? Anything at all? Lindelin says pris-prisoners are most often ransomed, but we have had no word." Caronnen's face hardens farther, into immobility. Otherwise, surely, he will begin to weep - and never be able to stop.

The very mention of his brother's name causes Gwaithmir's gaze to flit away blinkingly to a dark corner of the room. He leans back in his chair, exhaling roughly. His lips are parted, moved soundlessly in the shapes of words and prayers. A flush comes to his pale cheeks and a light into his eyes like that of a man taken by fever. "No," the word is cracked, at odds with the intense bitterness of those that follow, "His body lies rotting in some southern field, naked to the cruel sun and the ravages of the carrion birds." He glances to his mother at mention of Farielle, yet does not speak, instead pressing the knuckles of one hand against his teeth.

Caronnen flinches, the agony in his eyes clear for a moment before being ruthlessly locked away again. There are things he must do, and cannot if he is prostrated by his grief. "Then we will have his services without. Others have done the same, we will not be less than they." His gaze flickers to his wife, and he gives Gwaithmir a warning look. "I will send a letter, requesting leave for Lominzil. In... a week's time."

Nelbrethil pales and chokes back a sob, but stiffens her spine though the tears run unchecked down her face. "A week," she murmurs. "Yes... " And she looks at Gwaithmir, silently waiting for the rest of his answer, reaching for her husband's hand as she does.

Gwaithmir's answer is a jerking motion of his head that might almost be a nod, but isn't. He waits silently under his mother's gaze, but when she does not relent he throws up his hands in defeat. "There is no word. She was taken alive and surely, surely, if they know she is a Girithlin they will not kill her. But I have spoken to men who know of such things, and they say it is strange that we have not yet heard anything."

The courtier uncrosses his legs, leaning down over his knees, hands steepled together. He lifts his head toward his father, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "Since no message has come out of Umbar, I have sought means to get one in. I talked to a Captain of the Fleet, Seregarth, if you know him. He told me nay, unless his orders could be altered, which maybe with pressure in the right places we could accomplish. I chanced, while out riding, across one of Manwe's eagles, the Valar be praised! He has sworn to give thought to my request that he seek out Farielle. And the Squire Menelglir has suggested that the Bragollachs may know of secret ways to get messages into the south."

"That is well," Caronnen begins, frowning in thought. "I shall speak to the prince, if I must."

Nelbrethil interrupts, "An Eagle! And he spoke with you! Oh, surely, such an one could find her, if any could!" She darts a glance at her husband, squeezing his hand.

"Bragollachs." It is an epithet, very nearly a curse. Gwaithmir's father is silent, frowning still more. "Still, if we must... I will pay any price. But wait. I heard, yes, recently - was this Menelglir of Telphekhor you speak of? I heard the Telpekhori ransomed back a child, a young girl, did he say nothing of this?"

Gwaithmir smiles encouragingly at his mother, nodding his head in assent. He gives a snort at his father's use of the Bragollachs' name. "I should tell you, Father, that I intend to do everything I can to utterly destroy Lord Bragollach. Neither tongue nor pen will be silent til his kin are ashamed to own him and another, more worthy, lord holds his title."

The rest draws a suspicious glance from Gwaithmir. "Yes, that was he. He said nothing of this ransom." His chin is lifted, trying to divine his father's intent.

"Strange," is Caronnen's comment. "Perhaps he did not know, though that seems unlikely. Still..." He is silent a moment, then straightens. "You must speak with the Telpekhori. Perhaps Lady Laeraelin. If they cannot help us, then... the Bragollach." He nods at Gwaithmir's stated intent, but it seems he is too weary to delight in vengeance, though he does not rebuke his heir.

"Gwaithmir," Nelbrethil chides gently. "You must not give way to bitterness. It is unbecoming. Though I confess to similar desires when I think..." Her voice breaks and she covers her face with her hand.

"I will speak to the Lady Laeraelin." Gwaithmir is drawn from his ruminations by Nelbrethil's distress. He turns to his mother, grasping her wrist as some sort of comfort. "Hush, naneth. I will let them alone, if it distresses you. I will speak with the Bragollach. I would rather die than leave Farielle in captivity because I was too proud to seek help."

He turns back to his father, though keeps hold of his mother's arm, "What else would you have me do, Father? I am yours to command."

Nelbrethil turns her hand up to clasp his tightly. "It only distresses me for you, my son. I do not wish to see you lower yourself to the level of such as they. Still," her gentle face grows hard. "I hope that justice is done upon him for what he has wrought."

Caronnen is looking back into the flames. He closes his eyes at his daughter's name, but opens them almost at once - they are still dry. "I must call for the steward and go over the accounts. Do you take thought for that end, Gwaithmir - I will give you that letter in the morning. I will see where best we can acquire a pledge for - her ransom." There is the tiniest of breaks in his voice, but he stares still, face hard and still, into the fire.

"Is it ignoble to see that justice is done?" A true question that Gwaithmir asks of his mother, not mere insolence.

Rising, he draws Nelbrethil's hand nearer to plant a kiss upon it. "I think you had best to bed, naneth. Sadness is a weary thing to bear."

"Of course not. It is the manner in which it is done that can be either noble or not. What may suffice for another house, does not necessarily become House Girithlin." Nelbrethil remains seated, letting her son draw her hand to his lips. "Yes," she says, "I will go soon." But she looks at her husband, locked away in his grief.

"I will be mindful of my honour, and of Girithlin's," says Gwaithmir with an inclination of his head. Nelbrethil's wishes to remain are deferred to with nothing more than a soft smile. Gwaithmir, however, approaches the fire, warming his hands upon it. "I will return to Dol Amroth tomorrow morning. Do we...do we hold Eruiglas' services in the city, or in Edhellond?"

There is a long moment of silence. At last, "I do not know," Caronnen says heavily. "Have you any thoughts upon the matter? Or you, my dear?" He looks at his wife. "Perhaps the time here weighs heavy on your hands and you would find comfort with other ladies about you?"

"In sooth, I think Dol Amroth would be his preference. He spent much of his life there, after all, and I hear tell that services will be held there for all those that died at Caldur." Gwaithmir's hands have become ridiculously hot, but he doesn't move them; it's easier than facing his parents at the moment.

His father bows his head in assent. "I will not say I will find it - comfortable," he says in a low voice. "Yet, you are surely right. Then we will come home and raise his memorial here, where he was born."

Gwaithmir closes his eyes, head bowed, and though he smiles it is a pathetic smile indeed. "I...yes. That is what he would wish."

Nelbrethil stands, quietly, and puts her arms around her son, holding him silently for a long minute. Then she holds her hand out to her husband, who takes it, and together they walk out of the room. Caronnen looking back to say, "I will see you before you leave."

Gwaithmir holds himself perfectly still when he is embraced, only stirring when his parents depart. He says nothing to them, though he turns to watch them go. Once their retreating forms are lost to sight, Gwaithmir too quits the room, not towards his room, but out to the garden.


	22. Chapter 22

It's afternoon - and the hall and common lounge are nearly empty. Which is a relief to Farielle, perhaps; she has ventured down again from her room and is looking around rather cautiously. A guard walks with her, a little step behind.

It is noticeable, perhaps, that the Gondorian shies from actually making eye-contact with anyone that she can avoid looking at. Though she smiles and nods politely to anyone who manages to force her to.

A flurry of hushed words sounds from the doorway before the guards part to admit a tall and slender woman with a purposeful stride and eyes for the far curtained walls. Where Seaward adherents wear deep azure, she appears to be arrayed in deep purples where her dark cloak shifts aside to allow a glance; she does, however, appear to carry a faded, bloodstained Seaward sash clasped in hand, an accessory put into strange contrast with the serene expression upon her finely-featured face.

The sharp relief of a raised brow comes into play, however, when her focus chances upon Farielle, and her course across the hall is soon changed to bring her nearer to the Gondorian and her escort. "So you are the girl," Niakhti muses plainly and quietly to spare an echo, a winning smile offered first to Farielle's guard as she places herself in their path.

Farielle stops, looking up warily. She says nothing, as nothing Niakhti has said seems to require a response, but instead looks at the woman with a little curiosity. The garment she wears is different... But Farielle doesn't know enough to know what that means.

Niakhti shifts the bloody sash casually in her hands with every pretense of an absent-minded, fidgeting gesture drawn out far more deliberately. "Forgive the lack of an introduction, will you?" she asks with little invitation for answer. "I suppose it must be as strange to ask as it is for me to offer. I am Niakhti, and you, Farielle, yes?" The dark woman's alto is smooth and her manner decorous, though her eyes linger an unapologetically appraising weight upon the pale young woman.

"Yes," Farielle says slowly. "I am Farielle. Of Girithlin," she adds.

"Yes, yes," Niakhti echoes idly, as if narrating her thoughts while she considers Farielle. This pause, whatever it brings to mind behind her dark eyes, elicits a languid smile. "I was looking for your... Lady. Eruphel." She states this confidently enough, with a pronounced awkwardness on the title. "Though I am sure her ladyship has many more pressing things to deal with than such a little matter as is mine. I would not wish to anger her with idle things. Perhaps you know the tower well enough by now to help me yourself?"

"To help you with what?" The girl's words are more cautious. "I know only a little of this tower."

"I found a Seaward man in the streets, dejected and badly beaten. By some beast of a foe, no doubt, though he seemed reluctant to say. Perhaps the poor soul was too frightened of reprisal?" Here Niakhti pauses to consider the girl's reaction before speaking on with a more reassuring tone that wavers toward patronizing, whether knowingly or not, as she fingers the sash in her hands. "I would not ask you do anything to endanger your favor with your keepers. I ask only to be granted a vial of medicine for him, that he may recover is health and honor before returning to his station."

"That is not too much, is it?" she asks, voice lifted just enough to be audible to the guard as well. "I would ask Eruphel herself, but I do not wish to rouse her from more important matters if it would anger her." Her last sentiment is spoken almost like a question, and again Farielle would find her face watched, if she were to make eye contact with Niakhti.

A slight frown winkles Farielle's forehead, and there is something in her eyes - disgust, perhaps. "Beaten by whom?" she asks, stiffening a little as the woman goes on. "I do not know where such supplies are to be found, but I daresay the captain of these guards might."

The guard looks like he might have a better idea of who Niakhti is talking of, for he rolls his eyes, but says. "Yes. Such can be fetched." He eyes the woman. "And you undertake to care for this ... man yourself, do you?"

"He would not name his assailant... Lady," Niakhti repeats, trying the title with a carefully-reprised smile. "Indeed, he seemed reluctant to reveal his condition at all, but his pain was so plain it could not be masked. So gruesome were his wounds... and no small man himself. It must have been terrible for him."

Here Niakhti lifts the bloodied sash for the guard to witness, though makes no offer to hand it to him. If rolled-eyes are noticed, they are met with a cool, calm patience. "Goodness, no," is her answer for him. I seek only to do a favor, to Eruphel and her Corsairs. I would just as soon go, if help for such an unfortunate condition is not needed."

Farielle's face grows pale, and she swallows hard. "There is medicine," she says. "I - I cannot get it for you, but one of the guards..." She glances back at the man.

He nods, and looks around - there is no one here at the moment, but... Ah. A young man crosses the great hall, and is hailed and sent for the medication. "A favor," the guard says then. "Indeed, that is very kind of you, lady." His voice is so expressionless as to be ironic.

"Thank you," lilts the dark woman to Farielle specifically upon her consent; little heed is paid to the deadpan guard, perhaps suggesting that thanks and favor is not Niakhti's aim after all. "I am sure Bahazaid will wish to thank you himself, when he learns of your part in this," she adds quietly for the girl alone, his name punctuated by a particular emphasis and further study of the girl's pale face, though Niakhti's own expression is a kindly (and carefully-managed) smile. "I am sure your waiting husband would wish you to see our true kindness here, if you are to enjoy your new home."

Bahazaid. A sick look crosses Farielle's face, but she shows no other sign of her thoughts. "I - do not think he wishes to say anything to me," she says in a low voice. Despite herself, and her mostly-successful attempts at self-control, her eyes dart to Niakhti's at the other woman's sideways mention of Lord Alphros.

Niakhti waves her hand dismissively. "Be that as it may, it is a good deed no less!" says she, laughter implied in her timbre as the subject is forgone. "Perhaps Umbar will take to you, and you to Umbar. In the meantime, I shall await your messenger here."

Strange though these may be as parting words, this would seem their intent as Niakhti steps at last out of Farielle's presumed former path with one last smile for her escort.

The girl gives a wary nod, and continues on her way, maybe leaving the room a little more hurriedly than she had come in.

Back up the stairs. The curving hallway is lit by a strong afternoon sun. Stark shadows lay across the spots where the light doesn't reach. One such shadow looms suddenly on the rounded wall, elongated until it barely seems human; another follows it. And both of these are joined by the sound of footsteps - Farielle's barely audible, her guard's more like a march. Her blue dress alternately flames a brilliant sapphire and dims to navy as she passes the arching windows.

Seemingly by chance, as they pass a T-junction in the Hall, Yildirim is there and takes up with the trio, much to the guards' surprise, short-lived as it is. "Good day, Lady Farielle. Nice to see you out of your chambers and out and about."

"I went to the library, and then downstairs," Farielle answers, after a short pause. A smile flickers across her face. "There are even some books I can read there. I didn't know if I should take them away, though." She looks at Yildirim curiously. "I didn't think you came here often." She doesn't mention her brief conversation with Niakhti.

"Only for thieves that hold my property in captivity, Lady," Yildirim in jest. "The harsh Haradrim winds kick up sands that are simply impossible to remove from the creases of one's armor."

"It's quite uncomfortable."

"If you wish it, it is simple enough for me to gather what is mine and be on my way."

Farielle's eyebrows draw together and she looks at him, puzzled. "Thieves?" A slightly hesitant, but not so brief smile crosses her face. "If you mean do I want you to go away again... please stay. I would like to talk to you. If you are not busy?"

"Only a thief, Lady, you!" Yildirim intones in mock forcefulness, "You have my cloak. I aim to have it returned!"

A sigh, "And I will suffer some time with you if you so desire."

Both eyebrows go up, and then Farielle laughs. "I had forgotten." They are near the doorway now, and she pushes it open, going in. One of the guards comes also, stationing himself near the door; the other remains without. The cloak is folded and laying on the low table, and the girl gestures towards it, sitting down on her bed. But then she doesn't seem quite to know how to begin, looking first at him, and then down at her hands, and then at the guard. "Do you - " she starts, then stops, and almost at random asks abruptly, "Who did that to your finger?"

Though he tries to hide it, there is surprise on Yildirim's face, and he turns towards the cloak, retrieving it and wrapping it loosely about his shoulders, "Is that not twice you have asked? Why so curious? Cruel as it may sound, I know from experience that not all men in Gondor keep the ten of their fingers during life."

Farielle watches him, her blue-grey eyes troubled. "I want to know," she says at last, looking away. "You spoke of - of torture." Her voice drops as if she can barely say the last word, and she shivers.

A deep breath, and a hint of shyness enters her voice as she changes (perhaps) the subject. "You said that you know Lord Alphros. Will you tell me what he is like?"

He smiles at her, "I have only been tortured by Gondorian hands, if that is your question."

"It was a mistake on my part, nothing more," Yildirim replies, seemingly carefree as he adjusts the cloak still more. "As for Lord Alphros... There is much to speak of when you speak of a man. Shall I just speak on him? Or would you steer my words?"

"Who?" It is barely audible, and Farielle huddles into herself, still not looking at Yildirim. Though her eyes flicker towards him and away again as she says, rather obliquely, "If I must marry him... tell me what comes to your mind." Hard on top of that, apprehensively, "Is he kind?"

"Have you been told that you must marry him?" Yildirim questions, some concern or maybe confusion in his words.

"As to what comes to my mind... I have never seen him kind, nor have I seen cruelty. He is fair and measured, like great men of old. He was once Lord Farside, and it was under him that I joined Farside as Corsair. He never demanded anything from his men, only expectations of competence if not excellence. If it was delivered, he was open with praise and rewards. If it is was not, then you are as a ghost until you once again prove your worth. But that is how a great leader leads men to great deeds. For a wife... do you enjoy cats?"

"I did not think I had a choice," Farielle answers. "They said, if I please him, he will marry me, and if not..." But she doesn't finish, another shudder running through her body, her eyes shadowed with dread. "I know nothing of him. I have only seen him once and he insulted my kinsmen." A spike of clannish indignation sharpens her voice a moment.

"I don't know how to please him and - and I /hate/ that I must grovel to someone because I - I am afraid." She flushes. "Amestris says that it is worse than foolish of me to feel like that, but if he was kind, it might not be too bad..."

"Cats?" Surprise halts her words and brings her eyes up to meet his. "I - we have a cat. She just had kittens. What has that to do with anything?"

Yildirim's reply is delayed, pondering his response, "He has many cats."

"As to your end, I do not think it is all so bad as that."

"There is a prevailing view that you are dim, but I think you are more ignorant than dim. Though, to be honest, we have done no puzzles to test that theory."

"Simply put, you do not take seriously the claims of Alphros azAzulada. That is the simplicity of it. Others see you as weak or perhaps less than bright, but I think, as all Gondorians I have met, are cursed with the inability to believe a Haradrim for anything but a liar."

He takes a few steps towards Farielle, indeed, reaching out to take her hand, "Lord Alphros -is- the rightful King of Gondor. His will -is- to restore the Kingdom of Gondor, heal the fracture of our people and unite us. Now, I know you cannot believe it, for you have spent your life learning you cannot, but pretend you have had a different life, are a different person, and then look at where you sit. Queen of Gondor, surely someday, of Umbar and the Harad lands. Certainly, not so quickly as a snap of the fingers, but Gondor's wane has been clear for generations now. The tempest of time comes, to harken a new age, and Alphros is poised to be the leader of mankind through it. And here you sit, in your fetching gown of silks, in a position of more power, perhaps, than any other in Umbar and you bemoan your lot. That is why people think you a fool. But, I do not think you a fool. You simply..." he releases her hands, standing up, "Cannot believe it to be so."

Farielle listens, saying nothing as he takes her hands and talks, so earnestly, so sincerely, until finally he is done. In a low voice, she says, "That man - I don't know his name, he belongs here - he said that if Lord Alphros doesn't want me, I will be given to him and killed. For a sacrifice."

She looks back at him, letting pass the accusation of herself as stupid. "The lady, Lord Alphros's sister, she told me they are of King Tarannon's begetting, though I was taught he had no children. If it is so, you are right that he is king, but that is not something any belief or lack of it of mine will change."

Her voice grows more urgent, half-bitter, half-confused. "Why does everyone think that I should be glad to have been stolen from my people, happy to never see my family or my home again, or not for years if lord Alphros' claim is true. To be brought here, where I know no one and nothing, and no one will teach me. Where if you speak to the wrong person, you can be killed, or made a slave, or - or whipped. And Amestris is afraid to walk home after dark, alone. To be mocked and considered an idiot, where nothing I want or say is of the slightest importance to anyone, married to a man I have not chosen, who will never love me. Who doesn't even want /me/, but only my bloodline. Where in this is being a Queen supposed to comfort or please me?"

Yildirim smiles, "Well, I would say Gondor's particular bent to coddle women as weaklings is not to your advantage here. But, you are correct, Umbar has given you nothing to make you want to be Alphros' wife. In fact, but this morning I told Lady Farside and Seaward as much. Umbar has a freedom you cannot find in Gondor, and it is paid for with uncertainty, this is true. But..." he shakes his head, "My apologies. I am wont to lecture when given the chance. So much of Gondor's ways frustrate me."

"Simply put, the women of Umbar are more ambitious than in Gondor. Put in a similar position, they can only think of how they could use it to their advantage."

"Whereas, you are..." his brow knits together, "Too accepting, I think. Maybe? For them that is."

"I was happy," she says forlornly. "I looked to marry... in some years. Perhaps not for love, but at least someone pleasing to me. To look after his affairs and our estate. To... " She blushes faintly, "Have children, and my family near. I never looked higher. There are women in Gondor who are ambitious, but I - they seem hard to me, and calculating, with no care for anyone. I am not - I cannot be like that."

A quizzical look glints in her eyes. "I should scream? And pound on the doors? This would make people respect me? You are so strange. I will never understand." A moment later, irritably, "And I am not stupid!"

"Nothing so annoying as that. But I have heard that Lady Seaward had a man put to the lash for overly bothering you. Certainly, that threat has some weight. Others, your long memory for past wrongs when you are married perhaps," Yildirim attempts, "But perhaps even that defies who you are."

"In Umbar though, a man or woman can be both ambitious and caring. You simply have the will to move towards what you want. But, I will not press you to be Lord Alphros' wife. And, if I can, will speak with him and his sister so that they too do not force this upon you. It would serve neither you or Farside well for that. But that will leave you to the devices of Seaward, and I would be surprised if they did not take payment for your life, but I have no say in it."

"I didn't get sick," Farielle says. "And I didn't faint either." But she is frowning again, and shaking her head. "Is that the only thing that people respect here? Cruelty and harshness? I don't want to think always of everything anyone has done to me that I didn't like, so that some day I might wreak vengeance on them all."

Perhaps he thinks his promise to speak to the lord and lady will comfort her, but Farielle's face turns suddenly white. "Don't," she begs him. "I - I will try. Amestris has said she will help me. I don't want to be branded or.. or killed."

"Only the weak use cruelty, like that fool Khaan. And I will not say you have not been treated harshly, but then there are great expectations placed upon you. I would like to think I am neither harsh, nor cruel, nor my lady, nor my lord. But they have a strength, in both body and character, that I seek to have as well. That is what they look for in you. Someone worthy to be called, Queen."

Yildirim glances towards the guards, busy with their own conversation, "I should go now. Was there else you wished to speak to me on?"

"And you think I am weak." Farielle's voice is flat. "No. There is nothing else."

Yildirim considers, "I see I have insulted you. But, are not women in Gondor often praised for... what did the poem said, a 'delicate flower of womanhood'? I have seen women shield themselves from the sun, so that their skin is all the more tender. Are you not shunned if you carry a blade?"

He takes a breath, adding, "In truth Lady, in what way do these luxuries of upbringing give strength? I can not see it."

"If you want someone who can fight in a battle, no," Farielle says. "I cannot. I don't wish to." She glances at herself. "I avoid the sun because I burn terribly."

"Shunned?" She considers that. "There are women who learn, to defend themselves. They are thought a little strange, but not shunned. To want to fight in war, yes."

"But there are other kinds of strength: to show mercy and compassion, to not lower yourself to the level of your enemy by acting as cruelly, to uphold honor whether anyone else is or not, not to let power make you feel you can act as you will be it good or evil, to think beyond yourself to the needs of your people, not to require of them what you are not willing for yourself." She comes to a stop, looking at him as if from the far side of an invisible and perplexingly impassable wall. "If these things are not valued among you, there is no lady in Gondor who will make a fit bride for your king. No one he should want, anyways. And Lady Azradi said he wanted a Gondorian wife."

"You said you would ask that they not force me. I would like to get to know him, a little. Is this possible?" She sounds wistful now. "How can I choose, if indeed I am given a choice, when I am so ignorant?"

Yildirim listens to the young woman's words. He seems to consider them thoughtfully as she gives her information and her arguments. Then he answers, "All of that is well and good, but matters not if you can be cowed into doing whatever another wishes, no?"

Farielle stares at him. Finally, utterly perplexed she says, "I don't understand you. I don't know what you want. I say I don't wish to marry Lord Alpros, and your entire country decides it is because I am too stupid to know what is good for me. I say that I will consider it, and you tell me I am being cowed into doing what someone else wishes. Am I also stupid and cowed because I don't want to be a slave? What do you want me to do? Kill myself, to prove that I am acting of my own free will? I tried that already! Nisrin said I was weak because I didn't steal a sword and slaughter everyone else while I was at it, but the first person who came along would have taken it from me, and I don't WANT to kill people!" Her voice is rising in frustration, and the guards look up - but there is no talk of escape, and that is what they are primarily concerned with. They return to their conversation, keeping a desultory ear open.

"Lady Farielle, you are right," Yildirim says, holding up his hands, "In all things, you should of course, be the woman you are. I only am trying to explain what others are looking for. For what it is worth, I do not wish you to marry Alphros." His voice lowers, "Nor do I wish to see your blood spilled for some ritual."

He returns to full voice, "I had hoped to help you understand the expectations of those that hold your fate in their hands. I will see if you can spend more time with Alphros."

"That makes two of us, for I don't want to marry him either," Farielle says, slightly grumpy still. She pauses, curious. "Why don't you wish me to marry him? Everyone else seems to. Am I that bad?"

"Thank you," she says then, formally. "They want me to be strong, and to want to be a queen so that I am someone more like them whom they can understand." She lifts her chin a little. "I can be strong. But I will not be like these people."

To her latter comment, he chuckles lightly, "If you insist. As to marriage, well, I am a common man. Regardless of your womanly virtues, this all seems more trouble than it is worth."

He stretches his arms above him, "But for now, I must not idle my own day away. My thanks for keeping my cloak well. Oddly, I do not have another."

Farielle's anger is short-lived. "You're welcome," she says. "Thank you for loaning it to me." She smiles.

"Then be well, Lady Farielle, and good luck to deciphering the differences of culture between your people and mine. I was in Gondor several months and much is still opaque to me."

The young man smiles in kind, "Perhaps, doing so will prove you are not so dim as people say, no? And to correct, I did not say you were... the judgement is still out," he teases. "Good day."


	23. Chapter 23

_The funeral is over. The silent crowds still stand, giving their respect and honor to the dead. Caronnen Girithlin gives his arm to his wife, and escorts her one last time past the pyre that burns flowers instead of bodies. Behind him trail his two sons. They stop, staring into the flames for a long moment. At last, Caronnen takes a bit of paper from his pocket. He holds it, closing his eyes - lips moving as if he speaks without words to one who will never again hear his voice - and then stoops to lay the letter in the fire. _

_No tears brighten Nelbrethil's eyes, no cries break out. She bows her head and whispers, "Goodbye," and she and her husband leave. The mourners part for them, still silent; though friends reach out, as if by touch, they can offer comfort and sympathy. _

_It is not until they reach their home, and Caronnen leads his wife to their chambers, helping her out of her cloak, that she begins to weep, tears trickling down her ravaged cheeks. "Rest, my dear," her husband says, gently, and she nods, unable to speak. She will sleep, perhaps, and for a time, forget._

The house is quiet, never an echo ringing from the pure white marble. The last dying rays of the Sun filter in through the tall windows, embuing all with shades of rose. No servants are to be seen, though the manor has been left in readiness for the return of its masters; fires blaze in every hearth and on tables here and there are filled pitchers of wine and bowls of fruit.

Pacing back and forth in the foyer is Gwaithmir. He suits the house, and may look at this moment so lordly that he well could be one of the scions of Numenor for whom it was built. Over tiles as ancient as the name of Girithlin he goes, hands folded behind his back, countenance aloof in introspection.

The door opens soundlessly, and Caronnen Girithlin comes inside. He stops for a minute, shutting his eyes, as if - now that he is no longer in the public eye - he no longer has the strength to keep up appearances. The strength and determination that formed his face for the past hours is gone, leaving age and grief and weariness.

Following his father is Lominzil, the younger son, his face devoid of emotion and veiled partly by black hair. He pauses on the threshold, just as Caronnen has done. Then he shuts the door and turns the key precisely in the lock.

Gwaithmir drops his arms to his sides, ceasing his pacing. To his father he turns, his face only growing sad after observing that of his parent. He says nothing, only glances between his father and younger brother, gaze eventually settling on the former.

Caronnen takes a breath, and lets it out, looking between his two sons. "So." He stops, as if he can't think of what to say. Or perhaps, can hardly bear to say it. But then he goes on. "We will go home and raise a memorial to your brother. And then... Gwaithmir. I wish you were not called away. I have need of you here." Another sigh and his mouth twists. "Lominzil. I was content to allow you to find your own path to manhood, but now you have no more time to be a child. We - we must take thought for - Farielle." He can barely say her name. "Eruiglas is gone. Gwaithmir must be away. It falls to you, my son, to help me in this."

Gwaithmir's face takes on a pained expression, "Father! I do not gladly go. Yet, and think not that the words do not cause me agony to speak, Imrahil's worth is greater even that of Farielle. Our duty to him is greater than our duty to any other, even my lady sister. Father," Gwaithmir's tone raises, he lifts a finger to point rather accusingly at Lominzil, "You cannot give him his way. He is a mere boy! Let him do as he wills and you will have three children to lament, I swear it."

"At last," answers Lominzil, his eyes flashing blue as he bows lightly, "you look at me as a man, father. At last you give thought to your own daughter." But he looks up and there is barely concealed contempt in his voice. "Give your tongue a rest, dear brother. You'll run out of breath."

Caronnen lifts his head. "Enough!" he snaps. Anger - rarely seen directed at his sons - flares in his eyes. "Is it not enough that I have lost my firstborn son to foolishness, and my - my daughter as well? That I must stand on the brink of his grave and listen to you two bicker?"

"Gwaithmir, you will be silent, and let me deal with your brother. I have not yet entered my dotage, that I cannot listen and judge for myself."

Their father's eyes, hard and cold, turn to Lominzil. "When you act as a man, I will treat you thus. What do you know of my thoughts, that you dare speak of them so? I was never so ashamed of you as I was in that hall this afternoon, when you could not even keep your tongue controlled, and brought such sorrow to your mother, who has already born more grief than one heart should ever have to bear."

Gwaithmir quite visibly bites his tongue at his father's rebuke, bowing his head and going silent. At least until the whole comes out. Then it is rage, seething almost beyond control. A war is fought, his temper reined in, and quite calmly he asks, "What did you say to upset my mother?" Purposefully or not, he speaks of the lady as though he alone claimed full right to call himself her son.

Lominzil smiles at Gwaithmir, a swift-fading smile that turns to grimness. He merely bows his head to his father, features carefully schooled and rigid as ice: "Call it rashness, father. My heart does not know patience; it is already gone south with Farielle. But I listen."

Caronnen winces at his daughter's name. "Gwaithmir," he says quietly. "It matters not. I have spoken to him; I am content. Let be." His gaze moves between the two. "I know not what Gwaithmir has had time to tell you, Lomin. He has spoken with a Great Eagle who perhaps will find it in his heart to aid us. We know not even where she may be held. We must speak with the Telpekhori - with Lady Laeraelin - " An eyebrow raised at Gwaithmir - have you done this? "If she cannot tell us by what channels word came of the child they brought home, we must go to the Bragollachs. Word is sent to us of those waiting to be ransomed; there must be a way to send word back. And we must find a ship. I will see if I can request Captain Seregarth's aid in this."

Gwaithmir now remains obediently silent. He only shakes his head at his father's unvoiced question.

The account is heard in silence and without gesture; finally, Lominzil nods. "Word has been sent, then? But is her name among those to be ransomed?" he asks, his voice impersonal and calculating.

Gwaithmir moves himself the few paces necessary so that he is more or less behind his father, and puts a hand on the older man's shoulder. He squeezes it tightly, fondly. "All will be as Iluvatar wills it, father. She will be alright."

Lominzil moves a few paces back, away from his brother. "But before then," he puts in quietly, "we must take action to ransom her."

"Yes." It is, perhaps, an answer to both his sons. Caronnen lifts his hand to grip Gwaithmir's briefly, then turns to Lominzil. "We must. Tell me, my son, have you anything to add? I have told you all my thought, yet I - may have missed some simple thing." Simply, without apology, he says, "I have not been myself, these days."

"Who of us has been?" Gwaithmir withdraws his hand from his father's shoulder. To a nearby table he wanders, selecting from it an apple. With this in hand, he leans against the bannister of the stair, watching his brother and waiting for his answer (not to Gwaithmir's question, but Caronnen's).

Lominzil lowers his eyes, tracing the fine edge of a velvety rug around the floor. "What is to be done if we are refused the ransom?" he asks.

The older man looks blank momentarily. "Why would they refuse?" he asks at last. "We are well able to pay anything they would ask. What greater value could she have to such a warlike people? Even their women fight like men."

"I do not know," answers Lominzil, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "But the message that was sent - she told me that it was her own decision. What does this mean, Father?" He looks up, wearing his grief openly for a moment.

Caronnen makes a move, as if he will go to Lominzil and embrace him again, but he does not. "I thought," he says heavily, "That she spoke of her choice to go to Caldur. She was to learn of the healers in Dol Amroth; and did I think for one moment that any of them bade her go hither..." He is silent, wrath hardening his face. And perhaps the words he does not speak are more terrible than any he might have.

"Perhaps if we had not gone," murmurs the younger man, subtly skipping over the painful 'we', "she would not have decided ..." Lominzil swallows and begins again. "But now we know that she was taken alive. And my heart knows that she is still on this side of the Outer Sea."

And now his father does move to Lominzil's side, setting his hand on the young man's shoulder. "She is alive," he repeats. "If the ransom is not accepted, then we will take further thought. We have not strength of arms to bring her back by force, nor can we seek to snatch her away by stealth not knowing where she is. So first, these two things: to send word of the ransom that awaits her return, and, if the Hir Eagle will consent, to discover her whereabouts."

Something in his father's answer displeases Lominzil: it shows in the strain about his eyes. But he ventures, "When word is sent, Father, allow me to sail on that ship. I have studied the southern lands and know its bearings well enough."

Gwaithmir twirls his eaten apple by the stem, raising a brow at Lominzil. "Whyso, brother? So you can loose your mind in a fit of rage and do something utterly /stupid/? I understand that you wish very much to get yourself killed, but do try, for once, to think of someone besides yourself." The offhanded way in which he is says this is accompanied by a faint smile.

"I - perhaps, Lomin," is Caronnen's answer. "I cannot answer you now, but know that if I cannot yet grant my permission, I do not yet deny you either." He lifts his eyes to Gwaithmir and shakes his head. "Would that I could go," he says heavily. "But I cannot leave your mother so."

"I am thinking of Farielle," is Lominzil's humorless reply. "That she would like company. Thank you, Father."

Something seriously annoys Gwaithmir. Enough, at least, that he throws his apple at Lominzil's feet where it smashes into applesauce and seeds. Gwaithmir is away from the bannister, circling Caronnen to approach his brother with a glint of fury in his eye. "Thinking of Farielle? Thinking of yourself, rather! You bloody selfish little prat! Keep her company? Aye, I am sure she would take comfort watching you get beheaded or tortured! You insufferable child!" Gwaithmir stabs Lominzil in the chest with an accusing finger.

Caronnen lifts a weary hand. Enough. "You will doubtless excuse me if I do not wish to remain to listen to your quarrels. I must return to your mother. Gwaithmir, when you are finished, please take a message to the Fleet Admiral that I would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience. You may tell him why if he asks. Lominzil, do you go to the Telpekhors and see if you can discover from them by what means they learned of the child. I need a name; someone we can speak with to find a route into Harad." Without waiting for a reply, he turns for the door, walking like a very old man, not one in his prime.

Lominzil stares down at the prodding finger, then up at his brother, challenging him with his gaze. "Wouldn't you enjoy that, Gwaithmir? The only remaining child of the family, the sole heir. You, silver-tongued sage with his books and jewelled chalices, never would have thought for her, to speak, to play, to love. Point that finger again," the squire says, slipping backwards and turning in contempt, "and I shall twist it off for you."

"Don't you dare turn your back on me," Gwaithmir warns, his tone low and threatening. But there's something else in it, an edge that is not sharp, but sore. "You think you have a monopoloy on sorrow? You think you're the only one who feels anything?" He moves a few steps to the side, so that even if Lominzil has not turned Gwaithmir would still be visible. His face is more eloquent than words could ever be, expressing grief with a keeness that his tongue could not hope to rival. "Our brother is dead. Our sister is captive, if even alive. You may think me weak, or pathetic, interested only in music and pretty things. Think as you like! It does not change the fact that I would tear my heart from my breast and throw it at your feet if it meant you would be safe. For the Valar's sake, Lominzil, I love you!"

Lominzil turns - one hand snaps out, finding an iron grip upon Gwaithmir's shoulder as suddenly as a blow. The other forms a fist, willing to punch his brother's pretty face into disfigurement - but the younger brother only sighs, and rests his forehead on said shoulder. "I do not want to be safe," he says, overwhelmed, "if our family cannot be made whole again."

Gwaithmir stands stalwart, quite ready to accept the blow. His countenance crumples into compassionate sorrow when he is not struck. Lominzil is enveloped in Gwaithmir's arms, Gwaithmir resting his head on his brother's shoulder. "I know it, dear one. But you must. If not for my sake, then for our parents. Mother's heart will be broken if anything happens to you, and I go into the unknown - maybe to death. You must be brave for the both of us, Pinnaug."

Gwaithmir draws his arms up, taking Lominzil's face in his hands to pull his brother from him, so that he might look into his eyes. "You /must/ stay safe. Promise me that you will not leave Gondor. Swear it!"

OOC Gwaithmir says, "Pinnaug - Little Soldier."

Lominzil's eyes are half-closed, averted from the request of his brother. "I cannot swear it, Gwaithmir. It is something that must be done! Farielle knew that Eruiglas and I were in Caldur and she went: now Eruiglas is no more, and she too is gone. Call it selfishness if you will, yet my heart drives me South to see after my responsibility." He meets Gwaithmir's gaze, his own blue-grey stare terrible and wide. "If this is not to your liking, brother, then I offer this: should you return from your errand and find that I have acted unbefittingly rash, do with my life as you see fit."

Gwaithmir's disappointment is given vent in a sigh. "You will not change your mind? No, of course not. You're stubborn like Eruiglas. But you don't yet have his wit or experience. If I cannot stop you...then the Valar and my heart go with you. Be cautious, and mind your tongue. Sometimes a good deal more can be accomplished with courtesy than with a blade. If all else fails you, remember that you have a brother who loves you, and who will be very, very angry if you get yourself killed." Gwaithmir manages a smile, so pathetic it gains an extra charm, and moves forward quickly to give Lominzil a peck on the cheek. That same gesture carries on, bringing Gwaithmir around Lominzil and out the door.

Lominzil's hollow cheek is embarassingly damp and he stands frozen to the floor, gazing down at the puddle of applesauce and seeds at his feet. Finally he follows father and brother out, and takes minimal comfort in slamming the door behind him.

My sister,

Today was Prince Imrahil's funeral - the proclamation that would give up the search for our beloved lord at last, and name his son Elphir as Prince. It was an empty ceremony, as there was neither body nor proof of death; many of the Knights would believe that he lives still. We killed him ourselves, I think, with our kind words of sympathy.

A man - or perhaps some being greater than a man - interrupted the procession. A person of lore and might, he claimed to have Imrahil in his custody, and sought that guests come to his mountain home and entertain him, in order to see their Prince once again.

Several were chosen at that time; Aunt Tathar, Turlach, and our own brother, Gwaithmir, are going. I do not know what they will do there. I do not know, even, if they will come back. Farielle, can you imagine Gwaithmir bringing his harp and lute into the White Mountains with furred robe and red nose, and singing in the company of a stranger who claims to be Imrahil's host?

Oh, but I should not make light of the situation. I cannot think. Gwaith going on this foolish task is but another draught from this grief-well that has no end nor depth. Though we live on the hope that Imrahil is yet alive, we bid others their final farewell; Eruiglas was among them. I cannot help but think that you might be as well, but I cling to the hope that you are not.

I tire of the rhetoric and sympathy that has been offered to House Girithlin. They sit upon their robes of mourning and do nothing! If you are to be rescued, we must take action! And Father will not let me act, as if I were still a boy, but I must beg favors from the other Houses for a voyage or negotiation with the Haradrim. I could never negotiate; I have never hated the Southrons more, not even when we were defeated in their fief, Barazon.

I will not stop to rest until I have news of you. Mother is ailing in health and has gone back to our house in Edhellond, and Father went to take care of her as well. Gwaithmir is laughing still in that charming manner - it makes me want to hit him - but I know there is no laughter in his mind. As for me, I would weep, but no tears come.

I hope you are still alive, Farielle.


	24. Chapter 24

_Farielle spent most of the day after Yildirim had come for his cloak thinking. She laid out her thoughts as clearly as she could, as if she was composing a report for her tutor when she was younger. _

_"I don't want to marry this Lord Alphros. But then, I don't really want to marry anyone, yet. And I know nothing of him save that he plays a harp. And doesn't like to see his prospective brides chained up." Her mouth twists. "But I really don't want to be a slave, or - or sold and forced to go to any man who wants me. And I don't want to be sacrificed."_

_"It is quite likely that I wouldn't know anything more of any man my father chose for me - though I would know that Father had chosen him and thought him honorable. If Lord Alphros' lineage, what his sister claims for him, is true... " She shook her head and sighed. At least it would be better than a man of the Haradrim; perhaps she wouldn't be disgracing her blood by bearing him children. _

_"What I really want," she told herself, looking out the window, but not seeing the gardens below nor the sky above, "is to be able to choose for myself. I don't want to marry him only because I am too afraid of what might come if I do not. And I do NOT want to act like a slave. I am a Girithlin." She lifted her chin and set her jaw. "I must make a plan."_

_"If I choose to marry him - if he is a man of honor and kindness - then I will do so. And if I choose not to, I must make certain those other things cannot happen ... _

There is a quiet knock upon the door.

Farielle turns, frowning still in thought, and stares at the door. After a moment, she comes to it, pulling it farther open.

Long golden rays of sunlight slant through the single narrow window, turning Farielle into a black shape silhouetted by fiery turquoise.

Nisrin, who has been leaning about the doorjamb trying to peek in, steps back, her hands flying to her face in surprise. "Oh," she gasps, looking Farielle up and down approvingly, "that is such a nice dress!"

The frown fades into a smile - which also fades a little as Farielle glances down at herself, but returns when she looks back at the other girl. "Yes," she says. "It is much better than those other colors that woman wanted." The Gondorian hesitates, then steps back. "Come in. I - Nisrin, can you help me?" The guard waits for Nisrin to enter, then comes in behind her.

"Do you need more pen and paper?" asks Nisrin, stepping in lightly with a cautious glance towards the following guard.

"No..." Farielle hesitates again. "I am going to tell Lady Eruphel I want to go out," she says. There is a new determination to her manner; if the fear she has lived with the past weeks is still there, she has shoved it down somewhere it can't be seen. "I wish to buy some things. But I have no money... I will repay you," she says anxiously. "As soon as I can."

If discomfort flits over Nisrin's face at the mention of the newly-expecting Lady Seaward, she doesn't speak of it. Finally she stoops to the table and sets down a little bag of silver coins. "Umbar is not friendly to those who do not know it," she says. "Are you sure I cannot bring it for you instead?" And within that question, a note of mistrust: what if Farielle tries to run?

"You could come with me?" Farielle says, a little shyly. What if the other girl doesn't want to be seen in her company? Her eyes follow the little bag. "Thank you. I hope it is all right; I didn't know who else to ask."

"If ... if it is not too much of a hassle, I would," says Nisrin, brightening momentarily. "Do you think Lady Eruphel will say yes?"

"I would like it if you came. I don't know where to go to find things." The smile on her face grows a little, to slip into a frown as she crosses her arms. "She'd better," she mutters, then shrugs. "If not, I will tell you what I want and ask if you will go and find it for me."

"I hope she is still in a good mood," says the Haradrim girl, nibbling on her fingernail with a preoccupied manner. "Did you hear the news? She is going to have a child, at last!"

"No," Farielle replies, surprised. "But.. surely she would be in a good mood if that is so?" She looks at Nisrin closely. "You are ... happy for her?" she asks tentatively, her eyes lifting briefly to the listening guard.

"Very much so," Nisrin smiles blandly at the guard. "Now Seaward - and Hashikh - will have an heir!"

Farielle looks as if she isn't quite convinced by Nisrin's protestations of gladness, but she lets her smile grow broader. "And a nephew, or niece for you!" she says, with an almost too-hearty enthusiasm. There is a slight question in her eyes still; here is something she doesn't understand quite, but she can't ask about now.

"Indeed," says Nisrin with a faded smile. "In any case, here is the silver, and you can pay me back when you are able. Do tell me if I can come!"

"You can come," Farielle says, firmly. "I have asked you, and no one else has anything to say about it." She glares over Nisrin's shoulder at the guard, who looks a little confused maybe at this aspect of his charge. She certainly hasn't shown any such decision or forcefulness up to now. But he shrugs. It is no matter to him.

Nisrin merely smiles and says, "Yes, Lady Farielle. I will wait for your word, then." And she heads for the door.

_That was done. Farielle smiled to herself. Now for the next part. She left her room, and went downstairs - and once more went towards the great doors that led out into the Tower grounds. She walked towards them as if she had every right to go out - though inside, her stomach was singing with tension, like one of her brother's lyre strings strung too tight. _

_She put her hand to the door, pushed it open, walked outside ... and no one stopped her. Once there, she stopped a moment, to look around. From her room, she had been able to see a wild growth of plants. It was only a hope, but Eloissel had told her once of various poisonous plants, and Farielle remembered one that grew in the dry heat of the south. This place, she thought drily, was full of just the sort of people who would like to plant poisonous flowers... _

Its weird how its almost November, and the outdoors are still temperate, sometimes even warm. The gardens are never so pleasant as Fall, as the late-blooming flowers are just getting into high gear, while the summer flowers still linger in the delayed warmth for as long as possible. Lady Eruphel also lingers in the garden, as colorful as one of the flowers, with a rosy bloom on her cheek. She holds in her hand a colorful snake with green and purple markings.

'Even warm'. Farielle has been suffocatingly hot most of the time, and now it has finally cooled down to something bearable. With the ever-present guard - actually of some use now, to point out various things in the gardens and keep her out of snakepits and the like - she wanders along one of the paths, stopping now and then to look at a flower or peer after a flutter of bright feathers. Around a corner - the girl stops abruptly on seeing Eruphel, then with an air of determination, comes towards her. "Lady," she says, hesitates, and finishes politely, "May I offer you congratulations?"

Eruphel looks up, and seeing the Gondorian woman, smiles. "Farielle...thank you. Come and sit with me. The garden is full of wonders." she says to her captive like one might to a long-time friend." She moves over on the bench to make room. "You are looking much more...healthy." she comments.

Farielle perches on the edge of the bench. "It is cooler," she replies. "I do not like the heat." Her voice is nothing but mildly polite, but there is a curious determination in her eyes that has not been there before. If Eruphel has noticed, what little she has seen of her. "It is a beautiful garden," Farielle adds, and with a breath, "Lady. I wish to go into the town."

Eruphel considers her for a long moment, then says, "Go and fetch the guard in charge of your detail, and return with him."

Farielle nods, and rises, going back the way she had come. When she returns, someone else is talking to the Lady of the Tower. Farielle comes to a stop beside the bench and waits, looking at Eruphel.

The guard, Khaan it is, stands at attention next to the Gondorian, saluting the Seaward lady once and then waiting to be addressed.

"Understood, Lady," nods Lojrul, even as the others return. "I shall see what providence the Steward's direction has saved up for this use. When you speak with him, I am sure he will be gladdened, and defeat this illness swiftly."

He turns then, nodding to Farielle and Khaan in turn; the former given a momentary appraisal ere his eye travels on.

"And now, if you need me no longer, I shall see to my business. It has been a pleasure, as always, to visit your gardens."

"Stay if you wish, Lojrul, but it was good to see you." Eruphel answers the man of Desert Tower. "I shall visit your Steward soon. I hope he survives until then. Give him a word of hope from me." Glancing to the side now as Farielle returns with Khaan, she inclines her head, though to which is dodgy. "Ah, good. He must have been hard to find." The Lady smiles, then looks at Khaan. "Guard, this woman wishes to be unleashed upon the city. In your opinion, will the city withstand such a force?"

The girl lifts her chin a little at Lojrul's look, and something glints in her eyes as she stares back at him. Then her gaze moves to Khaan, and the glint remains. It isn't quite anger, it is more than determination - almost as if she is daring him to say no.

"You wish to let this...woman.." Khaan eyes Farielle dubiously, "roam the streets? The city may withstand her, though she will make a pretty target."

"The city may well have a thing or two to say about her, too," warns Lojrul then, in the tougue of the Haradwaith. "That is, if your fine Corsair Bahazaid is anything to judge by. I fear more bad feeling than has been known to you roams the city in response to this pale girl's presence. I would have a care to guard her well, if you must let her loose to face them ere you have had a chance to sway their minds toward tolerance."

A final bow of his head then, and Lojrul steals another glance to Khaan, as if surveying the man's bearing shrewdly. "Sun's blessing upon your day," he adds, before turning to walk out along the path.

"Within the tower? Who is to say. Outwardly all are loyal to you, but a knife hidden within the folds of clothing is easy to accomplish, and hatred runs high for the Stonelanders," Khaan says. "The sooner you dump her into the lap of the King of Gondor, I feel, the better."

"I have been tempted to do exactly that." Eruphel agrees again. She takes a deep breath, looking up to the sky as she tries to think. "If we allowed her to go into the city, how many guards would she need to bring her back safely, in your opinion?" Eruphel continues to talk about Farielle right in front of her, as if she weren't even there.

"Five should do it..." Khaan eyes the girl up and down like inspecting a piece of dubious food. "But why? She is valuable and I assume will fetch a pretty coin if Lord Alphros accepts her. Why risk damaging or even losing the goods? To what end-to relieve her boredom? Let her be bored, I say-the better for her to learn to appreciate our lands and her new situation, rather than wallowing about, whining day and night," he says in disgust. "But do as you wish, Lady. You have asked my opinion, and I say do not give in to a spoiled child."

Eruphel looks at the Gondorian woman, then does something she has not done much: switches to the Umbarean dialect. "What you say is true. She is worth a lot of coin, if Lord Alphros chooses her. But we must consider first, that Lord Alphros has asked that she not be treated as a prisoner. I have tried to do that, within reason." She looks at Farielle a bit, then continues. "And we must also consider that if he does choose her, especially if he does win his bid for the throne, she will be Queen of Gondor and a powerful person. It is a narrow line between safety and diplomacy. Five, you say?"

"If you are concerned about Lord Alphros...of Farside..." Khaan answers in the same language, emphasizing Farside in a hard tone, "then 10 guards. Or take your concerns to Farside, that she needs to be more swiftly ...accommodated by them. If you are concnerned for her safety, then do not let her roam the city at all, and the tower with two guards at all times."

Eruphel shakes her head and sighs. "Your counsel is wise...Sergeant." she says, still in her native language, giving the informal promotion a chance to sink in. "Ten guards. Take her out to the Market just once. After that, she likely will not even wish to go, especially if she catches a slave auction in progress." She rises. "And keep a detail of two here in Seaward."

"Very well, Lady," Khaan says also still in Haradaic, one brow arching briefly at the promotion. "Thank you," he salutes. He eyes Farielle again. "To the slave auctions...yes...and perhaps there will be a public whipping there, as well. But I will take extra guards."

The glint in Farielle's eyes becomes anger as she listens to what is said about her, anger that is not abated by the two in front of her switching suddenly to another language so that she can understand nothing at all. Still she says nothing, but crosses her arms and waits for them to finish.

Eruphel nods once. Then she turns to Farielle, speaking Westron once again. "You may go. I am sending ten guards with you. Make good use of them," she says softly, then heads down the path toward the tower.


	25. Chapter 25

It is early afternoon in the Swan's city of Dol Amroth, and like it has been as of late, the rain continues to fall down from the heavens drenching all of the city and those that are unlucky enough to have to venture outside. But within the Lion Rampant's Parlour, it is dry and warm. Dripping cloaks hang from pegs by the door and servers move about dispensing drinks and plates of food to the patrons of the refined establishment.

Sitting in the back right corner of the Parlour is Captain Aearon. He sits at a large table that is covered in parchments, maps and random scattered papers. The Captain currently sits with an aged map in front of him and a cup of steaming liquid in his hand, poring over the map as he studies the aged parchment.

One small corner of that table is given over to Menelglir Telpekhor, soaked cloak hanging somewhere near Aearon's by the door. There's a steaming mug of tea next to the Squire, and in front of him is a hefty tome that he has somehow managed to get from somewhere...and to keep dry. He is deep into the book, tracing lines with one finger, frowning as he reads.

"Sirs," says a quiet, cultured voice not of the Lion's staff, "may I serve you?" It is Lominzil, standing nearby with a steaming pitcher of spiced and warmed wine. He is soberly clad in squire's attire and for once, well-groomed and steady of expression; rumor-mongers might, by his appearance, feel that he has stepped back from the precipice of grief-stricken madness, though some whisper that instead, he has stepped further down those stairs.

Hearing the voice address him, the Captain looks up from his map and looking at the squire says, "Serve us? In what manner, Squire...?" Obviously expecting the squire to introduce himself, then looking to his cousin a moment, he takes a sip of his steaming tea and leans back waiting for the squire to speak.

"Lominizil?" Menelglir looks up from the book in front of him, blinking. "Serve us? Why...sit down, obviously. Unless you are working here? But whatever for...and, this is my cousin, Captain Aearon of the Silver Ship, Blue Squire Lominzil."

"Yes. Thank you, Menelglir," says the standing squire, and after a moment's hesitation, sits. The jug is set upon the table as well, though he does not touch it.

His hands mesh, gripping each other as if for support. "I am Lominzil Girithlin," he says in his quiet voice. "My manner has been remarkably uncivil in the near past, and I confess it to be without reason. Yet I hope you will hear me, Menelglir, Captain Aearon," blue-grey eyes regarding each Telpekhor in turn, "for I come humbly to beg of you a favor."

Setting his cup of tea down, the Captain looks the Squire over a moment then says, "I cannot guarantee any favors, Lominzil. Menelglir and I are rather preoccupied with other matters at the moment. But there is no harm in asking, speak your mind."

"I will help you if I may," Menelglir says, though. "As I told your brother Gawithmir I would. You have heard, though? He was chosen to come with us." A glance at the pitcher now on their table, and Menelglir twists about to get the attention of a serving girl, who brings over cups for the spiced wine.

"Thank you," murmurs Lominzil to the serving girl. He pours swiftly, concentrating his attention therein, and nudges a mug toward each person. "I was present at the giving of the invitation," says the young man. "I wish him, and you both, well on your endeavor." Wrapping slender fingers about his cup, he begins, "My father, Caronnen, tells me that the Telpekhiri recently ransomed a young daughter from the South."

Rolling up the map and setting it down with the rest of the parchment upon the table, the Captain says, "Yes, we arranged such things during the Fair." Sipping his cup of tea, he continues "I negotiated the ransom with the she-devil of Seaward, Eruphel.. or Maha.. whatever name she goes by." Setting his cup of tea down again, he leans back and says, "Our negotiations were complicated, money was not the only factor."

"I understand. So the point of contact was initiated at the Festival of Falastur with the Tower-lord," says Lominzil, listening, though the observer might notice the vertical line of strain chiselled between his brows. "My sister, Farielle, was taken during the storming of Caldur. Since then we have had but one word from her, but that is already long past. I came to ask the means whereby the ransom was negotiated, that we might send them a like offer."

Thinking a moment, the Captain says "I negotiated the meeting place for the exchange whilst Maha - Eruphel was still within our lands. To be honest, the Fair was the main reason we were able to complete the negotiations." Tapping his finger upon his chin a moment, "Do you know which tower holds your sister?" then pausing for a moment, "And do not take these words wrong, but do you know if she yet lives?" Taking a sip of his tea again, the Captain continues, "Finding out which Tower holds your sister will be your first step; from there you can try and contact them.. as for how I do not know."

"I told Gwaimthir this, but he would have none of it-the Bragollachs, particularly the younger Lady Gweneth, arranged trade wtih some of the Southrons during the fair. Gwaithmir seemed to detest the Bragollachs-or so his reaction indicated. I do not know if this is a family wide aversion," Menelglir says, looking carefully to the other Squire, "but I deem that family your best chance." He pauses. "Besides, you are Squire to Lord Bragollach."

"As it was in Caldur, it was likely Farside or Seaward that did the deed. As for her current state," says Lominzil quietly, pressing a fist to his chest, "I know nothing, but my heart chooses to believe that she lives still. My family will seek House Bragollach, then, if we must. Little do I regard House-strife now," the Girithlin admits, smiling weakly at the Telpekhiri. "If Sir Imrakhor will hear me, then I must ask him for kindness in this matter." His expression does not seem to relish the encounter.

With a sigh, and a look as if he feels for the young squire, the Captain says, "I wish we could be of more help, Lominzil. I wish you good luck and that you can arrange her return swiftly." Picking up his cup of tea and taking a sip, he continues, "Be prepared to pay a large ransom. Fifteen gold florins was the ransom for our niece, and she was but a young child."

"There is another option," Menelglir says, having gone suddenly quiet. He sets his mug down, and, giving Aearon a quick, sideways glance, continues to the Squire. "The Black Company. They are known to support the Pretender. Surely they must have ways of reaching the Southrons. Though you would have to convince them to trust you-and you would have to do so without committing treason or breaking your oath."

"Any price. If Farielle could be brought safely home, I am willing to give them my head!" affirms the Girithlin squire, closing his eyes. "The Black Company, you say? Very well. I have heard little of their activities; perhaps they have already returned South. But it is something to consider. I thank you - Menelglir - Captain."

Shooting his cousin a half glare at the mention of the Black Company, the Captain listens to the words of both squires, then as the young squire goes to leave, he says, "Be careful when dealing with either of those groups, Lominzil, they are not to be trusted."

"Not to be trusted indeed!" Menelglir says with vehemence. "Not only that,Lominizil, but if you are to deal with them so and not be accused of treason, you must get permission from your Knight and from the Order. Anything to secure your sister-but would she sanction your death and your name being blackened as a traitor?"

"I am prepared to act as the situation requires," says Lominzil soberly. He rises, bowing deeply to the Captain and the other Squire. "Thank you, sirs. Finish the wine - it is good wine."

Again giving the squire a nod of his head, the Captain picks up another map from his pile of parchment, unrolls it, and begins to look it over, sighing heavily as he does so.

'Be wary,' Menelglir says as Lominzil departs. He watches the other squire a moment, then shakes his head and turns back to Aearon, saying something partially lost in the noise of the inn.

_Farielle watched the lady go, and anger turned to triumph. Now, back to the plants. But this 'garden' was a jungle - she didn't know if she dared venture off the path. From what the guards had said, a dreadful fate awaited anyone who tried. But she hadn't yet had a chance to look along all the paths; she would do that before trying anything more dangerous._

Beneath the cultivated canopy, the afternoon is lush and green as a jungle, with no hint of salt air or dry desert. It is loud, in that animals chatter to each other nonstop from their perches, few people choose to walk the maze at this hour.

Nisrin, though, is perched on a bench, eye to eye with a slender green snake. The snake holds the girl's gaze for a long minute, unblinking, then slithers off suddenly across the path in search of some tasty insect. Nisrin mutters and reclines back against the bench, her eyes closed as she listens.

A snake gliding almost under her very feet brings a muffled squeak from Farielle, and a smirk from her guard. "Are they poisonous?" she asks after a minute, a little breathlessly, staring into the undergrowth where the snake has vanished.

"They aren't," calls Nisrin, smiling at the voice through closed eyes. "Unless you are an insect!"

The unexpected voice is nearly as startling as the snake, but less fearsome. Farielle's tense shoulders relax and she looks around, trying to find the other girl. "Oh, there you are. I didn't see you." Coming around the last little bend of the path, the Gondorian hesitates before sitting down. "Might I join you?"

"If you like," says the other girl, gathering herself into a sitting position. "Do you like the gardens? You aren't lost, are you?"

Uncertain quite how warm this welcome is, Farielle hesitates a moment before sitting down. She smiles tentatively. "No, I am not lost." She nods at the ever-present guard, and her voice takes on a bitter edge under the surface humor. "I could not get lost, even if I wanted to."

"It is very ... different. I've never seen anything like this. One of my kinsmen has a place with different animals in it, but it is not like this."

"Of course," Nisrin says matter-of-factly, "the Seaward gardens are renowned. Say, have you been in the audience of Lady Eruphel? Is she to let you go out? There are these wonderful embroidered slippers at the bazaar, only they will be all gone if we wait too long..."

"Yes. She says that I may go. With ten guards," Farielle answers, frowning a little. She glances at Nisrin after a minute, banishing the frown. "Slippers? Will they go with my dress?" And a moment later, lifting her chin a little, "I - I want to buy a gift. For Lord Alphros. Do you know him at all; what he might prefer?"

"I daresay they might," says Nisrin, then after a blank moment, "Lord Alphros? Perhaps ... a new embroidered veil? Or ... something to control his cats? I do not know, perhaps you could get something that reminds you of Gondor..."

The frown returns at the mention of the veil, and Farielle is shaking her head. "I don't like that... His cats?" She stops and stares at Nisrin. "How many cats has he, and why do they need controlling? Are they - do they - all /over/?"

"Cats," repeats Nisrin patiently. "Did you not know? It is the curse that follows all descendants of Queen Beruthiel. They come to him from everywhere, even though he does not call them. But he does not like cats very much, though Lady Azradi does."

"I did not know," Farielle answers slowly. "I mean, Yildirim told me that he had cats, but I thought, a few. For pets. I didn't - they just come?" She is silent, trying to picture this. Then she grins suddenly, and there is a spark of something else, satisfaction perhaps, in her eyes. "He needs the opposite of catnip."

"A pair of fine hunting dogs," smiles Nisrin, and her eyes light up. "Oh! Have I shown you the kennels yet?" And she is up and bounding away, tugging on the lady's arm.

"I don't think you gave me enough money for that!" Farielle protests, but she lets herself be pulled down the path towards the kennels, laughing a little at Nisrin's enthusiasm. The guard following behind has to lengthen his stride to keep up.

_Farielle felt almost cheerful as she left the kennels. I think... I think I have found a friend. Suddenly, she was worried. Was it a betrayal of her homeland to be friendly with the enemy? But Nisrin - it was impossible to think of Nisrin as the enemy anymore. She was half-way back to the tower when she realized she had no desire to go back in. Not yet. She found a bench and sat down on it. The guard took up his position beside and a little behind her._


	26. Chapter 26

-My apologies. I just realized that none of the section breaks I put in showed up. :( I hope it's not been too confusing to figure out what was happening -

The evening sun slants towards sunset and Farielle still sits on the bench, staring into the jungly growth with a slight frown on her face. The guard shifts his weight, bored, and coughs; the girl glances over at him and says exceedingly politely, "If you are bored, you may go." She looks away again at once, knowing very well he won't go anywhere. A finger of light slides through an opening in the canopy and turns her blue silk dress a brilliant sapphire; then lowers into shadow, and still she sits there. It is plenty warm yet, for one raised in the cooler climes of Gondor.

There is the sound of activity from beyond the garden, towards Seaward's great gates; voices and heavy footsteps and other such commotion. After a while, the source of the hubbub becomes clearer. A procession of individuals - Corsairs, attendants, and others - files into the Garden under the watchful eyes of the Seaward guards. They bear not the sigil of one of the other Towers of Umbar, however, but rather are clad in hues of black, gold, and white. And at their fore walks the veiled man who most in the city can now recognised as the King-Claimant of Gondor, the ones the Gondorians call the Pretender.

Farielle ignores the noises for a while - after all, very little that happens in this place has anything to do with her, and she is busy thinking. But it goes on. And on. And grows louder and closer. She turns to look, her eyes widening at the procession, and scoots back a little on her bench as if she might hide in the green fronds about. Then a clear second thought - she shifts back to her original spot and watches the on-comers without apology; and with no little curiosity.

Alphros gestures to his companions, who fall back. For all that he has brought a small crowd into Seaward Tower, one might note that the procession is not the grandest: half a dozen Corsairs and several courtiers, but not the grandest of displays, whether out of modesty or necessity.

"Ahhh. Lady Farielle," he greets her from across the garden, speaking the Sindarin syllables with no small measure of distaste for the language, though seemingly not the person. "You seem... more comfortable than when I last saw you."

The girl watches him intently as if she is trying to find something, or perhaps, trying to decide something. In the same languages, she replies, "It is more pleasant to be able to move, yes, thank you." A pause. "I understand I must also thank you for this dress... and its color."

"Well, I hope they are satisfactory... I thought Uzma's choices were beyond compare, but the chief of my guard likes to meddle in such affairs behind my back," the would-be King of Gondor answers, seemingly complicating that situation. But he waves the matter aside. "I trust you are not over-exposing yourself to this Southern sun, too?" he adds conversationally, waving in the general direction of the heavens. "Pale northern skin has little defense against its burning wiles."

"Then I shall thank your guard. I look terrible in the colors she picked," Farielle says flatly. Her tone is not impolite, but neither does she seem inclined to mince her words. She glances up as he gestures, and nods. "I take care. I burn terribly, even at - home, if I am out in the sun too much." There is the tiniest hesitation in her voice at that word 'home' and something - determination or defiance or anger - hardens in her eyes. She hesitates again, then asks, "Why did you give me these dresses?" The words might be blunt, but her expression is that of someone who earnestly, sincerely wishes to know.

Alphros tilts his head up in a slightly petulant manner as she insults his preference for colour, but he is not angry; more intrigued at the presence of a strong personality. "I am glad you have not yet wilted in the ancient and oppressive airlessness of these towers," is all he says in answer to that.

Then he waves another hand, and several of the courtiers come forward. One bears a large hanging object in one hand, completely concealed by black cloth. Another bears a small chest. Two others carry nothing, though their presence seems deliberate. "You are a lady of noble birth, and contrary to the horror stories told by your kin, you will find that not all Southrons are sand-eating barbarians. Indeed, you and I share the same lineage cast off from the lost shores of Numenor."

The girl relaxes a small amount, though she watches him as if she still isn't quite certain he has answered correctly. "The heat is uncomfortable," she says, slightly less aggressively; a conversation perhaps - no longer someone itching to start a fight and too well-mannered to actively do so. "Is it never cool here?"

Curiously, she watches the men who come forward, then looking at Alphros inquiringly. But there is nothing to be seen save the veil - her eyebrows crease in a faint frown and she looks away from him.

"The breeze is pleasant in the winter," Alphros answers, "Of course you will not feel it while you are locked up here behind the walls, unless you should climb to the upper reaches of Seaward."

The reason for the other burdenless courtiers might now be explained... Various Seaward cats, responding to Alphros's presence just as in rumour, have started to meander down to the small gathering in the garden. They seem particularly drawn not only to the King-Claimant, but to the hanging cloth-covered burden. As the felines encroach, the two other courtiers get to shoo'ing them away... That would seem to be their job.

"As the finest genealogists and historians in Umbar have been able to confirm that you are who you say we are, I thought that we might proceed to the next stage of this possible transaction," Alphros says, matter-of-factly.

In the winter. Farielle's nose wrinkles in distaste. Then her eyebrows raise at the sight of the cats - and the shooers - and almost, she laughs, her face relaxing and the small muscles by her eyes crinkling. She doesn't however, composing herself - at least until Alphros speaks again, bringing both fine dark eyebrows snapping together. "I am not a transaction," she says, each word clipped out in an edged voice.

"No, you are not," Alphros answers, "Though I am afraid you are the key object of note in the transaction between Lady Eruphel and myself. And I would like to make sure that you are worth it, as I have promised a fairly hefty reward for a Queen and would not like to disappoint either of us."

"Now," he gestures to the attendant bearing the smaller chest, who comes forward and kneels before Farielle, proffering his burden so that she might open it. "This is for your own good as well as well as my peace of mind. Though my physicians have assured us of your good health and suitability, and I would dare not risk incurring Lady Eruphel's offense should I seem untrusting of her security, but... I am a man who does not take many risks." He says this without a hint of irony.

Farielle ignores the chest, for glaring at Alphros. His agreement has blunted her anger - but only for a moment, for he goes on to fan it further. "Yes," she says, dangerously. "I do hope neither of you are disappointed by your /transaction/! And what of myself? Is there any room in these proceedings for /my/ disappointment?" Having to scowl at someone whose face she cannot see seems to make her still angrier, and she adds with irritable impatience, "Must you wear that thing?"

"I can have Uzma make you one, if you like. It does an adequate job of preventing pale skin from burning," Alphros answers innocently, before glancing behind him at a sudden yowl. A particularly brave cat has leapt at the cloth-covered burden that's so attractive to them, and in answer one of the attendants has sprayed the cat with some liquid in a perfume bottle... Obviously the sciences of feline defense are progressing adequately.

Turning back to Farielle, Alphros gestures to the attendant, who opens the small chest, revealing a chastity belt of fine silver and gold. "I should not like you to seduce one of your defenseless Seaward guards and thus bear a fair-skinned bastard who might think to parade around claiming that he is the Prince of Gondor."

The girl stares at the chest and its contents, lifts her eyes - furious now - to the man who has just insulted her beyond bearing, and stands up. "If that is the opinion you have of me," she says, her voice shaking with rage, "I am surprised you have any desire whatsoever to wed me. Perhaps someday, you will find a woman whose honor you can rely upon, for I will NEVER marry you." She turns her shoulder to him, stalking away down the path towards the tower, her entire body tense and quivering with outrage.

Alphros seems genuinely surprised by Farielle's reaction. Perhaps he spoke in jest? Perhaps he is not accustomed to women unlike his Southron sisters, unmodest with the power of their womanliness? Or perhaps he was testing her? He lifts a hand to call, but at that moment is interrupted by a loud metal clanging- one of the cats has eluded its shooer and leapt for the large cloth-covered object. The attendant goes down with a yelp, and in an instant the area has become a seething mass of yowling cats, scrambling attendants, and a large object that hits the ground. The cloth is pulled back a frantic cat's claws to reveal a large birdcage, whose doors fly open in the tumult to release a large black heron.

The cats' immediate response is to leap en mass for the bird, which takes to flight with a royal shriek and nearly decapitates Alphros in the process. The King-Claimant duck, and the heron flies right over him to land in front of Farielle, blocking her most convenient route of escape.

The large bird eyes the Gondorian curiously, cocking a brilliantly-plumed head to one side and croaking in greeting.

The Gondorian girl wouldn't look around at the clanging if it was heralding the end of the world, but perforce she must stop when the bird lands in front of her; the cats in hot pursuit. The bird is the lucky recipient of her smoldering glare, and she tries to push past or around it. A cat races between her feet, two more follow it, throwing Farielle off-balance. She throws out her hands, trying to catch anything to keep herself from falling...

Unfortunately, Alphros is unable to assist the falling Gondorian lady, for it would seem he has problems of his own... A small army of cats, no longer held back by the attentions of the shooers, have pounced upon the would-be King of Gondor, purring and clawing at him affectionally as he tries to rise back to his feet.

And the heron? Where before it fled, now its manner changes... specifically as the rushing cats unseat the lady. It turns on the felines, flapping its wings and squawking menacingly, driving the Seaward cats away from the Gondorian woman until there are none around Farielle, almost as if it were trained to behave as her guard (even though the object of his guardianship might now be upon the ground).

Falling onto her rear, dragging a fistful of vines down with her - these are not things designed to improve a lady's temper. And her guard - her Seaward guard - helps matters not at all: he is leaning against a tree trunk, nearly helpless with laughter. Farielle sits still a moment, then painfully pushes herself to her feet again, to resume her interrupted leave-taking.

"Wait, Farielle..." comes Alphros' voice from where the King-Claimant has just managed to push off enough of the cats to sit up, one hand now extended in her direction. The attendants seem to have recovered enough from the chaos to begin restoring order, and chasing off the felines.

As an added incentive, the heron now trots after the Gondorian woman like a well-trained dog, occasionally nipping at the hem of her skirt.

"Stop it!" Farielle scolds the bird, half-turning to try and shoo it away. Alphros' call brings an extremely unfriendly gaze to his face. "What?"

As she stops, so does the bird. It watches her, cock-eyed.

And Alphros? He restores a little dignity to his position by rising to his feet and brushing down his front. "I can see that when they teach you young ladies of Gondor, they go into propriety at great length but neglect such things as humour," he says simply. It does not seem that the would-be King of Gondor would ever grovel, or apologise, but there is a shift in his manner that suggests his actions have not come from a callous place.

Farielle crosses her arms. There is the faintest shifting in her eyes - uncertainty? "It wasn't funny," she says flatly, and now she is shaking perhaps from a different cause than sheer unadulterated rage. Reaction, maybe.

"No, but it was telling," Alphros answers simply. "Whilst I understand that you might still be dealing with a strange situation, I hope that you may one day find the strength to... measure yourself more carefully. Still, a bit of fire in the blood is not always a bad thing," he adds, more to himself than her. "Perhaps there is more Bragollach blood in you than the genealogies record."

Alphros clears his throat. "I think that I have my answer for Lady Eruphel. In the meantime, I thought that you might enjoy some... sympathetic company," he gestures at the heron.

"Telling what?" Farielle asks warily. Yet another person calls her weak in the space of but a few days, and the glower returns, but not at full force. A fiery temper rarely lends its power for long, and hers is fading rapidly. Though the feelings left behind might not be so swift to be banished. She follows his gesture to the heron, and after a moment, though grudgingly, says, "Thank you."

"You should expect to hear of your fate soon, Lady, if not from me, then from another," is all Aphros says in answer, inclining his head to her. Turning on his heels, he beats a hasty retreat, followed by a procession that does its best to clean up the mess created in the meantime. Farielle is left alone with her guard... or, rather, her guards. The heron squawks at her.

Farielle, left alone - more or less - watches Alphros leave, still glowering. Then she begins to walk along the path herself, back towards the tower - but more slowly than coming. She is looking for something, apparently, for after a while, she stops and breaks off a branch from a shrub; and carries the spray of flowers back with her to her room.

_She had guessed right. It was there - an oleander bush dropping its flowers on to the path itself. They were pretty flowers, too; no one would wonder at her wanting to pick some to brighten her room. She scowled a little. They would only think her a spoiled child, and if anyone seemed suspicious, she would pretend she had never heard of poisonous flowers. _

_He had made his decision. Lord Alphros' voice echoed in her mind and she scowled, though not with the fierceness of indignation of earlier. If he'd decided, why hadn't he just told her? Why make her wait and wait like this? She tried to think back, remember what he had said and how he had looked. What had he decided? Her stomach clenched. Had she no choice in this after all?_

_Yildirim's request on her behalf must have come to nothing. If he'd even made it, she thought bitterly, then stopped herself. No, surely he had done as he'd said. They must not have listened. The Lady - Azradi, she reminded herself - had certainly sounded like she wanted Farielle to marry her brother. _

_And he'd given her that bird. She glanced over her shoulder, nervously. He'd sounded like he meant it to be a gift. 'Company', he'd said. 'Sympathetic company' even. Perhaps he knew a little of how unsettled and displaced she felt. But then why hadn't he told her what his decision was? The knot in her stomach started to burn. What was she to do? She hadn't yet had a chance to buy the gift she'd meant to give him when she saw him. A gift so that he didn't think she came to him as a beggar, but as a lady in her own right, of a lineage more honorable than his, even if he had been born of King Tarannon. _

_Only he had come too soon. What should she do? If he'd already made up his mind, was there any point in still buying it? She didn't even know what to get. Nisrin had been little help. A dagger, maybe, an ornamental one. But... Farielle scowled, suddenly angry again. She didn't want to buy him anything! How dare he call her a - a whore! 'I will never marry him!' she thought fiercely. "Never!"_

_One blossom of the spray snaps off as Farielle's fingers clench about the twig, and she forced herself to relax. She would do as she had planned. If - if the worst came to pass, she had the blossoms and leaves. She would eat them. At least it would be a swift end. _

_She brushed pollen from her dress, and paused, looking down at the brilliant sapphire silk. He had given her the dresses. The dagger could be in repayment; she did not like to be in debt to him. But there was still a faint uncertainty in her thoughts - would a man like that, so accustomed to power and control, even listen to her if she said she refused to marry him? _


	27. Chapter 27

Bragollach Estate - The Manor

The exterior walls of the Dol Amroth manor are covered by ancient, creeping vines, but the interior of the estate is regal and impeccably kept, for even a lesser abode of the Bragollach it is a place to be admired. The floors are of shining white marble laid over with crimson rugs, matched by the paler shades of drapes that flank tall and gilded casements, while the furniture is of varying lighter hues. There are many rooms upon its three floors and within its three lesser towers - dining rooms, parlours, private chambers, kitchens, quarters for the servants, an elegant bathhouse, an aviary and greenhouse, a proud great hall, a library of considerable size, and even a sparring hall decorated with ancient armour, blades, and coats of arms - and without exception, a marble likeness of a noble Bragollach stands on vigil in each.

Candles are lit, and curtains are drawn against the night.

The Lord Bragollach sits at a high-backed chair draped in crimson, at the head of the dining table. He has a hunting knife in his hands, which he uses to pick at his nails.

"Squire Lominzil of Girithlin to see you," says a man's voice from the door.

Imrakhor looks to Gweneth for a long moment and then nods to the attendant.

The older Bragollach smirks as she rolls the last bits of brandy around the bottom of her glass. "I travel from Tirith Cobas only to be called on by Squires. The quality of your company falters, Lord Bragollach. Who is this Lominzil that you would accept him without a reason for his calling?"

And Lominzil is brought in, impeccable in blue tabard and black. He steps quietly through the door, his lean form stiff with reverence and burden; without words, he bows at the waist.

Gweneth eyes the squire as he enters, "I suppose I shall learn first hand," she adds dryly.

The Lord Bragollach fixes his eyes to Gweneth; there is laughter in them. "Perhaps you should not travel so often, on such tired and aged legs." There is no grandiosity or magnamity in Imrakhor's greeting of the Squire. "Lady Gweneth, may I present my Squire, Lominzil Girithlin," he says perfunctorily. "And Lominzil, the Lady Chancellor Gweneth Bragollach."

Lominzil raises his eyes until they hover at Gweneth's feet, then back down to the fine flagstones. "Lady Steward," he greets, quiet voice suddenly dry with apprehension. "Lord Bragollach. I ask forgiveness to have intruded upon your manor. I come on behalf of my father, Caronnen Girithlin." The squire's fingers hold the edge of a sealed letter.

"Your squire?" Gweneth repeats, her brow furrowing, "And a Girithlin." She finishes her glass, all the while eyeing the letter.

Imrakhor's eyes too are drawn to the letter. "I suppose this is for us." He looks to Lominzil.

"My father would desire a leave of absence for me to return to Edhellond," says the squire, stepping forward to offer the Swan-Knight his letter. "His children were once four; now one remains. Sir Eruiglas my brother was buried in the South, Gwaithmir is summoned North, and my sister Farielle," the youth swallows, looking down, "the Haradrim claim to hold captive. He would have my assistance in the business of her ransom." The letter says as much, with Caronnen's regards and seal.

"Belfalas mourns your family's losses," says the Lord Bragollach. "You wish to renege on your oath to Prince Imrahil, yes? That is the issue at hand?"

A thin trickle of red appears at the edge of Lominzil's mouth; he has bitten his lip. "Not so, Lord Bragollach," the youth replies calmly, his blue-grey eyes wide and detached of emotion. "I abjure nothing. Can not a man serve the Prince through dedication to his family, who also has sworn under Imrahil?"

Imrakhor takes the letter at last and places it on the table in front of him. "The Haradrim have contacted you to say that she is held?"

"They brought word shortly after we returned from Caldur," replies Lominzil, grief flickering in his gaze. "They have not offered a ransom, but I would believe that she lives still in their hands. No word has been sent since, and one cannot simply sail into Umbar," the squire goes on. "Yet Girithlin, having lost sons, would seek to regain a daughter."

Imrakhor uses the hunting knife to point at Lominzil. "And what purpose will you serve to your father that requires time from your duties?"

"I would find a route to the South, and speak his offer. His obligation is with the council and his house; my mother ails with grief and stays in an empty house." Lominzil stares unblinking at his Knight. "If I betray my Oath thus, treat me as an oathbreaker."

"What family of Belfalas has not lost sons?" Gweneth asks. "Sorrow is the coal that burns in the heart of Gondor. It is not such a fond way as the Girithlin would like to see things, but certainly it is the way things are. A trip to the south will find you but one thing, a grave site beside your brother's. Better to seek solace with your Knight in studies and training so that when the time comes anew, it is not you who finds a grave." She rises, graceful and proud, from her chair and noiselessly glides across the floor to the small bar, "For ransoms, there is no use in going to Umbar. They will come when they wish it and offer a price. Or they will not. If it was such a thing to initiate and bargain for they would lose what they crave most from it: the fear."

It is a strange thing, the Lord Bragollach growing quiet and slouching back into his chair. The knife, again, returns its attention to his nails.

Lominzil's eyes, cool and neutral, follow the Lady Chancellor. "Gondor's sons give blood freely for her name, yet Farielle is no son, but a daughter, who knows naught of war or great deeds and yet went to Caldur for love of her kin. It is not meet that she should be held alone in a foreign land, kept at a foreigner's whim."

Imrakhor kicks his feet up onto the table.

"Was it meet for a child of the Telpekhor taken by the self same Haradrim? Kept to those same whims?" Her glass is filled, four fingers worth, and then the decanter stoppered, "Nor the dozens taken from Linhir and along the coasts?" Gweneth turns and her eyes find the Squire's, "It is not out of cruelty or scorn I say these words, only that they are said because they are so. You have no power or ability in this. It is what it is. And your sister, grieved as I am for her loss, it is no less than for your brother or any other who has died serving the Prince." Her eyes trail away towards the floor, a slight smile of memory hinting on her lips, and then they are back on Lominzil. "You may harbor hope, for certainly what is life without it, but even I know the realities of that land and what gifts it has for those that there unawares."

The hunting knife moves oh so close to the Lord Bragollach's neck, perilously close. He knocks off a few hairs and then withdraws the blade. "You are young. Your temper boils. But listen, Lominzil."

"The child was ransomed," says the squire, eyes burning eerily as he looks up to the Knight. "I would have hope. Will you not tell me what you know of the land, its gifts?"

"If you wish to honor the life of your sister and brothers by giving it to the Haradrim and serving them either in death or slavery, then you can be released from the duties that life has given you. That is the gift that can be found in Harad; a release from the difficulties of life - eternally." Gweneth looks to Imrakhor, "Do your squires drink, my Lord?"

Imrakhor answers, "Yes," and his face does not betray his uncertainty. The scant facial hair, the glow of youth, they are still found in this Lord. "He will now. For his decision in this matter will be grave and determining," says Imrakhor. "I echo the Chancellor's warning. Chase your death if you will, but do not be surprised when you find it."

A simple nod and another glass is poured by Gweneth and offered to the Squire.

"I know its face," replies Lominzil, wrapping his fingers about the stem of the glass. "It will wait for me when it will." He drinks deep. "But surely it is not only death and slaves that pass through the Bay? All are enemies, yet are all hostile? Whence come the oranges in Dol Amroth, the spices, the offers of ransom? That is where I hope to begin."

"Have we not given enough already, Lominzil?" asks the Knight matter-of-factly. "Have we not released you from your oath as you requested? There are those that ply in that grey trade, but certainly remember that your words, 'all are enemies' are true."

"If memory serves, the only Tower of Umbar that has entered into trade with Belfalas was Farside and," Gweneth glances wryly at the Lord Bragollach, "I do not think they would be so open to discuss such matters. But as I said, even if you had the ability to make contact, to what end? It is cold, again I apologize, but imagine that I have a chest of gold in my room that is yours. You approach me and ask for your chest of gold, I deny it is there. You can do naught. All you can do is hope one day I approach you and offer you your chest once more and that it has not be given or spent." She slips back onto her chair, relaxedly smelling at her own glass, "Should you not simply make him do drills until he has the wisdom to understand? I do not think words have the sort of impact they should have. Or perhaps, he is simply unwilling to hear them." she asks of the Knight.

"Farielle is not an object," insists Lominzil calmly, setting the glass down on the table. "You have my gratitude, Lady Chancellor, Lord Bragollach."

"See? See how he ignored my words with semantics?" Gweneth notes. She sips from her glass, eyeing the squire over the lip. "If Farielle is to return, what greater happiness would she find in her brother Lominzil waiting for her, or that he is dead, trying to save her? Regardless, my condolences for your House."

"You may go, Lominzil," says the Lord Bragollach.

The squire bows and leaves the hall with a grim smile.

"Which tower was she lost to?" the Chancellor asks offhandedly when the Squire is out of earshot.

"Seaward I am told," answers the Lord. "If the past is any indication, they shall come for ransom at some point. Or they will keep her as a slave. But I do not believe her dead."

A shrug from the lady. "She is dead. Until she is not."

"I find myself uncomfortable in these quarters," says Imrakhor to Gweneth. He drives his knife into the table. "I believe I shall go for a walk. You will see to the estate, yes?"

"Calathil sees to the estate but I shall see to our family, as ever I have and do." A pause, lengthly and uncomfortable follows her words. "Enjoy your walk, Lord Bragollach."

Impetuous as a child, Imrakhor does not bother to acknowledge Gweneth's correction. "I may be gone for a few hours, or perhaps a while. Do not ask after me." And, he is gone.

Alone now, Gweneth does not stir, only sips at her drink. Some time later, she answers Imrakhor. "No one will."

"Not anymore."


	28. Chapter 28

The autumn sun is actually almost not quite blazing hot. Farielle is nearly comfortable, wearing a burnoose kind of wrap around her face to shield her from the sun and the plain green dress (with long sleeves) that Alphros did /not/ give her. The marketplace is a scene of chaos to one unused to it; though it really is much like markets anywhere - still Farielle's feet slow and she looks at stalls on this side and that. No fewer than ten guardsmen in the colors of Seaward Tower are clustered around her, some closer than others; some a little ways off, threading through the crowd. Finally, "You said slippers?" she says to Nisrin. There is a strange hesitance in her voice.

"Yes, slippers," says Nisrin impatiently, clad in an unobstrusive brown cloak and at home in the crowd, jostling here and there. "Come, or else they'll all be gone!" She reaches for Farielle's arm, guiding her towards a red-draped stall. A young woman, dressed in brightly colored silks, watches them carefully as she sits behind a display of jewelled, curve-toed shoes.

Farielle is doing her best to ignore the plethora of guardsmen about her, and as Nisrin tugs at her arm, she follows - heedless of the men reforming around and behind her. "Oh!" Her eyes run over the display pausing on one pair and then another. Reaching out, she touches one particular pair, a little less gaudy than some others, but done in shades of turquoise and sapphire and aqua.

"The young mistress wishes to try it on?" suggests the sales-lady in a voice smooth as oil, gesturing Farielle to sit upon a silken hassock. One glance towards the formidable array of blue-clad guards, and the beaming face of Nisrin, and she moves with a great deal more politeness and caution.

The Gondorian girl hesitates a little longer, glancing at Nisrin with an odd look in her eyes - which is about all of her face that can be easily seen just now. Then she allows herself to be persuaded onto the low stool, and the slipper to be fitted over her slender foot. She holds it out for Nisrin's perusal. "What do you think?"

"It looks nice," says Nisrin absently. Her eyes run disapprovingly over the green dress, "But it does not quite match your current outfit. Do you think it will go well with the sapphire?"

Farielle's eyes are suddenly hard and angry and she starts to snap something, then stops herself. Making herself look down at the slippers again, she considers them, then nods. "Yes. I think so. Don't you?" She wriggles her toes, testing the slippers' comfort. "Very well. How much are they?"

"For the commoner it is forty silvers," intones the sales-lady, her eyes lowered, "but for the guest of Seaward I ask only twenty silvers and kindness in return."

"Twenty," Farielle repeats. She glances over at Nisrin raising her eyebrows in a silent question - is that too much?

"It is a fair price," replies Nisrin, straight-faced, "but you also forget she is the friend of Nisrin Hashikh, who paid you the due price for a scarlet pair a week ago. Fifteen."

"I know and remember," says the girl levelly, "yet the price is fair. I ask for eighteen."

"Sixteen."

"Seventeen, Lady Nisrin."

"Is that well with you, Farielle?" asks the corsair girl of the Gondorian.

"Yes," Farielle says, putting on a regal air. "That is well." She pulls out the small pouch Nisrin had given her and carefully counts out the money, passing it to the girl. Then she glances down at her foot. "I can't wear them with this dress," she decides regretfully. "Will you wrap them, please?"

As the girl takes the money with a small bow and wraps the slippers in linen and canvas, Nisrin smiles and says to Farielle, "I told you they were nice. Do you go to markets often?"

"Not often," Farielle replies. "We live in the country, and merchants and seamstresses come to us. And the last year, I was in Dol Amroth, where there is a large market, but I was much too busy to enjoy it often." She takes the package with a smile. "Thank you." Then looks around and hands it to the nearest guard to carry. "He might as well make himself useful," she confides to Nisrin, a sparkle of laughter in her eyes. "Where shall we go now? I would like something for my hair, then I can give you your butterfly pin back."

"Oh ... you can keep it," says Nisrin, smiling at the burly Seaward guard with the unexpectedly dainty bundle. "It is much too garish upon my skin, anyway," she adds as they continue among the stalls. "Whereas it suits your eyes perfectly..."

"Are you sure?" Beneath the burnoose, Farielle is smiling, as evidenced by the crinkles beside her eyes. But the expression in those eyes is worried. "Then... I thank you. It is much too kind of you." She glances around and her attention is caught by a stall filled with various carved wooden things. "Oh! There - for Amestris, I will get that." It is a comb, carved from a wood with colorful swirls in the grain. She hands over the coin the shopkeeper demands.

"And now..." The girl keeps her tone light. "Are there... ornamental daggers? Not the sort really for being used, but for looking at?"

"Now, now," says Nisrin concernedly, but the current of the crowd pushes them towards that stall, "warriors and ladies have no need for ornamental weapons..."

Farielle catches a glimpse of what she wants - or what she thinks is what she wants - through the passersby, and heads for it determinedly. "It's not for me," she says airily.

"For the Lord Alphros? He likely has his own smiths, he would not go to the market for a knife..." protests Nisrin, but must silently fight her way through the passers-by in order to keep up.

"That isn't the point." Farielle abruptly sounds furious. "I will not..!" She bites off the words, and moderates her tone. "I will not go to him as a beggar," she says, turning to look at Nisrin as she comes up to the stall. Various decorative knives hang there - the sort that are of little good in any real fight, but are carved and adorned and bejeweled until they glow against their dark background.

"It will be a nice addition to his armoury, I am sure," comments Nisrin, her arms crossed as she looks up to the beautifully shiny displays. A dark turbaned figure sits in one corner but makes no move to approach them.

Farielle looks carefully through the displayed daggers and knives, pointing finally at one hanging farther to the back. It is slender, smaller than some, but looks sharp enough; the handle is an ornate carving of a snake; a red gem sparkles for its eye. "How much is this one?" she asks the figure in the corner.

The wizened salesman grins at Farielle, chuckling through his gapped set of teeth. "A pretty price for a pretty maid! For seventy pieces of silver, the humble work of Bakri shall be yours. But I do hope that the miss was not born under the stars of the Hare or the Dove - for then the snake is a curse unto its mistress, a bite well-misplaced."

"Which are the stars of the Hare and Dove?" Farielle asks curiously, with another glance at Nisrin for pricing information.

The salesman shakes his head in sad disbelief and Nisrin answers hurriedly, "Your people sail by different stars. But it is a good price for a knife."

"Oh." Farielle's eyebrows knit in a frown of momentary displeasure, but she shrugs and counts out the money, once more asking for her purchase to be wrapped. The little pouch is getting lighter, and she weighs it in her palm, before turning to Nisrin. "Now. I was going to buy you a surprise but I don't know what you like, so... you will have to tell me, and I will get it, and it will be a gift for you, even if it is not a surprise." The smile has returned to her face, even if it is a little over-bright and hectic.

"I ..." Nisrin blinks owlishly as they step back out into the afternoon sun. "There is nothing from the bazaar that I would need, Farielle," she says reluctantly, though her voice is not unkind. "Let us get some ices instead? Or do Gondorian women drink alcohol as well?"

Farielle looks over at the girl, and her smile vanishes. "I see," she says in a subdued voice, and looks away to hide her face. She is silent for a long minute before saying expressionlessly, "No. Let us go back."

"I am sorry - I did not mean to..." Nisrin begins, realizing her mistake too late. "Fine," she says finally, and turns around to yell at some of the guards (who are falling behind) in Haradaic.

"You were here, buying slippers for yourself," Farielle says, not looking at the other girl. "It is not that you don't wish anything from the bazaar, but that you don't wish anything from me." She blinks hard, trying to keep her voice level, and holds out the small pouch. "Thank you for loaning me the money. I am sorry if .. if you were made uncomfortable by being seen with a - a Stonelander."

"That is not what I meant!" hisses Nisrin angrily, pushing the pouch away. "I enjoyed shopping with you; it is much better than going with a pair of servants or Eron! But it is your silver now and I would not have it spent on gifts that I could buy myself. Keep it," the girl says, her voice heavy with disappointment, "and pay it back when you are Queen of Gondor, should you remember a simple corsair woman."

Farielle tucks the pouch away mutely. "I know you could buy it yourself," she says at last. "It is just - you have been kind to me and I wanted to give you something. What else have I to spend it on? I didn't mean to offend you." She sounds as if she is on the edge of tears, but pride keeps them from falling and keeps her back straight against the stares and whispers and hisses of others around. Not so many as there could be though - she is well-guarded, and very little of her pale skin is visible. "Why do you think I would forget you?" She notably says nothing about the likelihood or not of her becoming Queen.

Nisrin purses her lips and steps closer, reaching out for Farielle's hand. "When people become great," she says in a low voice, their heads close, "their memories grow dim. Even blood cannot stop that."

A hand clasps hers. For a second, Farielle is motionless, then she squeezes Nisrin's fingers. "Then," she says simply, equally quietly, "They are not truly great. Those who are truly great remember their debts and their friends, and are thoughtful for the weakest of their people's needs. My father taught me this, and he is wise."

Nisrin blinks, then smiles. "You would make a great Queen," she admits, swinging her hand a little as she starts down the street. "I will show you the birds and the monkeys, although that would be more silver than we started out with! They are chattersome, but friendly."

"Then you are probably the only person who thinks so," Farielle says, quietly. But she summons up an answering smile, and with a fair assumption of gaiety says, "Lead on! Do you know, I have never seen a monkey?"

"They are intelligent, perhaps more so than some corsairs! The only thing they will not do is talk," laughs Nisrin, tugging Farielle and her train of guards down the road.

...

_Lominzil had decided that short of murdering a ship-captain and taking his vessel south, he would find a way to where Farielle was kept. He found it._

_The men of House Telpekhor were civil and kind in their offering of sympathy, but could give naught else to the family Girithlin. House Bragollach guessed of Lominzil's plans and warned him against chasing his own end in sorrow. Lominzil wondered at what Sir Imrakhor thought of sorrow, having caused it in the hearts of so many._

_He was summoned not long after that to the castles of Dol Amroth. There, he found his knight-captain again._

_They spoke little of warnings and pleasantries, cutting swiftly to intent. In this they were alike._

_Lominzil was led through pitch darkness beneath the hidden caverns, the seaworn bowels beneath Dol Amroth which existed but were never known: hallows in jeweled caves, catacombs of the honored dead, with only dry dust and statues to guard their oath-sworn names. And then, it seemed that they came above ground once again, to set eyes upon the most treasured and strategic part of Imrahil's domain._

_The sea._

_It was an underground cave by the sea - salt-smelling, damp, slanted sunbeams coming in from the glittering bay - that might have held hundreds of battle-ready men against some seaborne onslaught of corsairs. This haven was filled not with men, however, but with ships - warships all of them, marked only by the lack of blazon and the grimness of their men._

_Imrakhor said, as they approached a great ship with black sails furled like swan's wings: "The Draugrim call upon men for various reasons. In your case, we simply have questions."_

They draw closer. Where before Lominzil's eyes were wide in awe, they are now hooded with caution, the blue barely visible beneath dark lashes. He blinks at the last statement of the Knight, and says quietly, "I will answer them."

Imrakhor continues to lead Lominzil onwards, to the very docks themselves. Before The Black Swan stand three waiting men of upright and noble bearing.

"Answer honestly," whispers Imrakhor. He then steps away from the Squire.

"Lords," the Girithlin squire says to the men with an incline and bow of slender shoulders.

The three nod to Lominzil before one speaks out over the rest. "How would you save your sister, were it up to you?" he asks.

The youth answers steadily, "My mother grieves childless in Edhellond and my father is wise. They will prepare a ransom should it be demanded, and I respect their decision." Yet a flicker in his eyes indicates that this is not so.

"You did not answer the question," says the Draugrim.

"No. Forgive me," answers the Squire, his voice catching jaggedly as if on a stone. "I have respected my father. Yet time's whim may be the death of his daughter. I would return to the South myself, that I might find her and bring her from that place. The lands I have studied; the plan is mine own."

"You may respect your father and his wisdom but also disagree with him, Squire," say the Draugrim. "It is likely she is held in Umbar itself. How will you get into Umbar? Do you speak the language of Harad?"

"I have never seen its walls nor uttered its tongue," admits Lominzil. "Yet there are dyes that will color skin and there are men who are born mute. I shall not be found." A pause. "But if to Harad I should go, then I risk abandoning my Oath to the Prince. I have leave from Dol Amroth, but not from Gondor."

"We shall see to your Oath and protect it in your absence," says the first of the Draugrim. "And we shall provide you passage to Harad, if you must go."

"But we do not offer such gifts freely, Lominzil Girithlin." The second. "Your death awaits you in Harad. Perhaps. Should you return, however, it shall be as one of us."

And the last man: "That is our price."

"I will chase death to find my sister. It has not yet stopped to wait for me, lord, but one day it must." Lominzil's gaze is keen as a predator's, and he looks to the Draugrim. "Should I return, what would you have of me?" he asks.

"Why, we are the very architects of peace," and that is all he offers. "Do you accept our terms?"

Lominzil looks once to Imrakhor, then steps forward, grimness and resolve etched into his fair face. "Yes," he answers firmly. "Provide me passage, lord, and I will be yours should I return. My eyes have seen Thurilonde; my steps cannot go back."

"So be it," say the Draugrim. "You have a fortnight to prepare."

The three turn away to attend to other duties, leaving Lominzil again alone with Imrakhor.

"You can tell no one of what has transpired today," the Knight warns. "Nor will you be able to speak of what is to come. Your silence is also your bond."


	29. Chapter 29

_Another day, much the same as those already past. With one notable exception: there is a large bird in her room, with a long, very sharp beak; and beady, threatening eyes. It stalks about the small room, staring at her, and occasionally making small darts towards her._

_Farielle does her best to ignore the heron; to ignore the scattered grain, the bowl of water. Servants come and do something with it - feed it, take it out, clean up after it... whatever it is they do. Farielle pretends it doesn't exist, walking a wide circle around it and trying not to scream when it attacks; though her heart leaps into her mouth every time. And she spends much more time in the library - with two doors between herself and the terrible bird._

_And she has been busy. She wrapped up the comb for Amestris and set it on the table, ready for if the girl should come again. And she painted. She had thought of something - if only she could get it right. Finally, she was done. She stepped back to look at her work, and nodded. It was harder to be sure, going from memory, but she thought she had gotten the likeness well enough. And already the colors were drying. _

_Farielle stretched, feeling kinks in her shoulders ease, and smiled, pleased with herself. Until something made a noise in the corner behind the door, and she tensed, looking nervously over her shoulder. The great black heron stood there, nearly unseen, its head tucked under a wing. She turned away, going hurriedly to the window and looking out._

It is sunny - but when is it ever not sunny in this place? Farielle is wearing, again, the plain green dress - both the silk ones hang on the wall. On one table are the pots of paints, the brushes, the canvases given her by Azradi and Amestris. The top one is blank, but a corner of the bottom has some smears of color on it.

"What is that smell?" wonders Nisrin absently as she slips in, the guard behind her. Upon her feet, notably, are a pair of pointy-toed slippers that have replaced the heavy corsair boots.

Farielle doesn't turn right away, looking up at the deep blue sky for a minute longer before she looks around. "What smell?" She ignores the guard. "I like your slippers..." There is a hint of laughter in her voice, though her face remains sober.

"Oh. Paints," says Nisrin, wrinkling her nose. She grins and plops down on the opposite cushion, wiggling her toes so that the small jewels twinkle and flash. "Have you worn yours yet?"

The other girl points to the corner of the room where her pair of shoes are sitting. "Only in here." She smiles now, moving towards the table and sliding the bottom canvas out, holding it so the front is hidden from Nisrin. Her smile turns a little shy, a little eager, a little uncertain - she is still a moment, then thrusts it out at the other girl abruptly. "I - made this for you. It isn't all that good, but you wouldn't let me buy you anything," she adds anxiously watching Nisrin's face.

_The picture is one of Yildirim - clearly from memory, but easily recognizable. The body is a little out of focus and undetailed; the face is clearer and he is smiling._

The Haradrim girl squeaks in surprise as she is suddenly presented with a painted portrait of ... "Oh," Nisrin gasps, blushing a brilliant scarlet, "Farielle, you did not have to ... it is too much." Tenderly, she smiles over the canvas edge and reaches out to take the painting by the edges. "It - he is beautiful."

Scrubbing furiously at her cheeks and casting a furtive glance at the guard, she murmurs, "How did you know..?"

Farielle's tense face and figure relax. "I saw how you looked at him," she explains. "And ... " She hesitates. "Your brother - that time - he spoke of it. Of you and him." The smile is fading, but she forces it back, pushing that particular memory away. "And once, he asked me if I had suitors and what they gave me, and... well, I guessed." She looks delighted by her success, save for the tiny shadow in her eyes that won't be banished.

"That is ... I never thought..." Nisrin smiles contentedly, tracing a line with her fingertip. "It is frowned upon," she says very quietly. "We have not seen each other for weeks, since we docked. But he has come to visit you, per Azradi's orders?"

The girl looks down. "I don't know," she says. "I mean, I don't know if he came on anyone's orders. He... " She hesitates, and finishes, her voice colorless. "He said he would be what passed for a friend to me; that I could not trust many people here, but I could trust him. I... I wanted it to be true. So I didn't ask." A pause. Delicately, "Why is it frowned on?"

"He is clever," the other girl says, gazing fondly at the portrait. "But while he is one of Lady Farside's sea-captains, my family is sworn to serve Seaward Tower. And though the two Towers are on good relations, it would not do for Lady Hashikh to run away to Farside, even if she has a brother," Nisrin finishes bitterly.

"I am sorry," Farielle says softly. "Is there no middle way? That he could stay with Farside and you with Seaward and yet be together?" Another thought brings a frown to her face and she asks, "I keep hearing that Farside and Seaward are different. Tell me how this is?"

But Nisrin shakes her head, unwilling to say more in front of the guard: "Different Lords, different seats on the Council, different loyalties. Might such a union be seen as an opportunity to undermine the confidence of either Tower? Only yesterday I was reminded of my responsibility to my House." The girl drapes the portrait carefully over the edge of the table. "But no more. Farielle - I thank you. If you need anything..."

Farielle frowns in vexation and a note of frustration enters her voice. "Everyone says that I am stupid, but no one will tell me anything!" She stops, takes a deep breath and lets it out. "But that is not your fault." Her eyes flicker to the guard and back to Nisrin. "I am glad it pleases you. And thank you. I will remember." There is a particularly intent look in her eyes.

Nisrin opens her mouth, but perhaps sensing something is amiss, closes it. "Thank you," she says again, and picks up the painting, cradling it so that his face is not visible, and slips towards the door with a quiet smile.

The other girl watches her go, her own smile pleased, if sad. The guard leaves also, shutting the door, and she is alone again. Back to the window, looking out at the sky.

It is not long ere a knock sounds on the door, a pair of gold-flecked brown eyes peering through where it has been left ajar. "Lady?" queries a voice, young and feminine.

Farielle turns, startled, staring at the door. "Oh," she says on a half-laugh. "Come in; I didn't expect to see you. But I'm glad you've come." She turns back to her table, picking something up and holding it in her hand. It's small and wrapped in rough cloth.

Amestris pushes open the door and enters, leaving it ajar. Her expression is somber, even a worried a tad. "I had to come see you, Lady. I have sad news."

"What is it?" Farielle asks, suddenly looking worried herself. "Your family is all right?"

One of the guards moves to stand in the doorway, not bothering to come in, since neither woman has shut the door.

"My family is well," reassures Amestris. "But I will not be able to help you impress Lord Alphros. My father is being sent to the Poros by Lady Azradi and he intends to bring me with him - our homeland is not very far from the garrison."

"Oh." Farielle sounds a little relieved, and she smiles at the younger girl. "It is all right. I - I was going to tell you that it - it probably wouldn't happen anyways. It was very kind of you, though, and I am grateful." She hesitates, looking down at her hands, then, tentatively, holds out the small package. "To say thank you," she says. "I do not know your customs, I hope I don't offend you?"

"It is an honor to receive a gift," replies Amestsris, accepting the package, "And that honor must be returned." She looks down at it curiously, then begins to unwrap it...

"It is I who am returning the gift," Farielle says hastily. "It is for your kindness to me, and for the goat." Her smile flickers. "Even if it's not going to happen; you offered, and no one else has done so much as that."

Amestris smiles and picks up the wooden comb. "Thank you, Lady. It is pretty. But kindness is another sort of thing and the goat has not been delivered. I will make certain your honor is returned - perhaps before I leave if I can, or through a messenger." The girl looks shy and bites her lip, looking away from the lady and to the comb. "I would bring you a gift from my home village, but I may not return to Umbar."

"I am sorry it isn't nicer," Farielle says. She looks at the girl, and doesn't try to continue convincing her that the comb is already a return gift. "It is all right," she says. "If you come again, I will be glad to see you. And if you do not, I will remember you. Where are you going? Are you to be married?"

"We are going to the Poros river," reminds, Amestris politely. "And then to my village. Father says he will look for a husband for me there or along the way. If he finds someone that pleases him, I will be married." As she states this simple fact, there is no trepidation or strong emotion present either for good or bad. But even so, there is a ripple upon her usually calm demeanor.

"I hope he is kind," Farielle says. "And a good provider." The edges of her eyes crinkle in a little true humor. "And pleasant to look upon!"

The girl grins, even laughs a little at Farielle's last wish. "As do I," Amestris agrees, "But kind above all."

"It is my father's right to marry me to whom he wishes," she says. "I do not question this, for he is kind and would never marry me to a bad man or someone I loathed. But I am troubled by this. I have learnt things lately about the oaths sworn to the Tower's of Umbar."

A shadow moves across the other girl's face, darkening her eyes. But she tilts her head curiously. "What is it that troubles you?" Farielle asks, then adds swiftly, "If you wish to tell me; I would not pry."

"In order to live and work in Umbar," explains Amestris, "one must belong to a Tower and that is done by swearing to its lord and the tower itself. That oath cannot be broken and one can only be released by the Tower's lord. My father cannot leave Umbar. If I marry someone far away, I will never live near my mother and father again."

Farielle swallows and looks away, out the window. "I see," she says very quietly. "I am sorry." It seems a little difficult for her to say this, but her words come a little easier as she continues. "Have you - can you speak to your father about this? Perhaps he would find a husband for you who is not so far."

"My father has been asking me whether I am ready for marriage and if there is anyone I would like since I first came to Umbar - even before I came of age," says Amestris. She shifts her feet. "Always I have told him I would do whatever he wished of me and that there was no one that had caught my attention. But I know more now about my own wishes. I want to live near my mother and father and I want a kind man. I will tell him this on the journey. But I fear it will do no good as he has many times mentioned how disappointing and soft he finds the men of Umbar."

The older girl nods, a little jerkily. "I wish I could help you," she says at last, her voice a little dull. "Perhaps there will be a man who would come here to live; your father and mother did, after all. But if not - at least, you will get to see them sometimes, won't you? They can visit?"

"It will not be the same," replies Amestris. She falls silent and looks down at the comb, rubbing her thumb across the smooth wood. "Was this yours?"

Farielle closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. "No, it is not the same," she says, opening them again. "But it is better than nothing." She glances down at the comb and shakes her head. "I found it at the market. I hoped you would like it. I know it isn't much."

"A gift has its own worth," replies Amestris. "Do not feel ashamed of it, for I am not. You are allowed to visit the city?"

A smile crosses Farielle's face again. "Thank you." She looks back out the window, then back at Amestris, trying to sound amused. "With ten guards. I think they must have been very bored; I only went to the markets. I do not think I will be allowed to go again."

"Ten guards?" repeats Amestris, her eyes widening. "You are treated like a towerlord! But why will you not be allowed to return to the market?"

"I think it is more likely they were afraid I would try to run away, or be attacked by someone, than that they intended me any honor." Farielle looks at Amestris for a long minute before answering her question. "Because I do not intend to marry Lord Alphros," she says finally.

A puzzled look crosses Amestris' features at the news, but she says only: "Then I am surprised you remain here rather than the slaves' quarters. Have they told you yet what your fate is to be now?"

"He acts as if I am an object," Farielle explains to the puzzled expression. "And called me... " She flushes and hesitates, her voice lowering, "... like I was a whore," she finishes finally, embarrassed and staring at the floor. She shakes her head, not looking up. "I don't know. No one has said anything. I have seen no one. I - I don't know what will happen to me. I have said that my father will pay for my safe return, but n-no one listens." Her voice trembles slightly, and she clears her throat, forcing the emotions away.

In the corner behind the door, unseen, something stirs and makes a sound, and Farielle looks up, vexation and a little nervousness mixing on her face.

"Lord Alphros said you were a whore?" repeats Amestris, her confusion deepening. "Did someone tell him lies about you?" As fascinating as the topic is, the young girl cannot help but turn around after seeing the expression on Farielle's face. Seeing nothing of course, due to the open door.

"I don't know. I don't know anything and no one will tell me, and no one listens to me or answers my questions. I might as well be speaking to the wall!" A moment later, a bird struts around the corner, tilting its head and staring at Amestris with a black beady eye. "Go /away/!" Farielle says with a kind of irritated desperation. But like everything else in this dreadful land, the bird ignores her.

The answer draws Amestris' gaze back. Her brow furrows. "You asked and Lord Alphros would not tell you why he called you a whore?" She looks back to the door when more sounds emerge. Amestris' reaction is quite different from the Gondorians lady's. Her face lights up in a beaming smile. "He is beautiful! Did you find him in the market, too?"

"Well, no," Farielle blushes again. "I told him if that's what he thought of me, I was surprised he wanted to marry me at all, and I hoped he would find a woman whose honor he could rely on someday, because I wasn't ever going to marry him." More frustration is tightening her voice, making it higher. "It was like he didn't even /listen/! He just said I would find out my fate soon, and set that /bird/ on me!" She says the word 'bird' like it is a curse.

"Why didn't you ask him why he said that?" queries Amestris, a bit of exasperation creeping into her voice. She approaches the bird boldly (the only way to approach a bird). "He set this lovely on you? He looks tame rather than fierce." She holds her hand out, palm up. "Do you have anything to feed him?"

"There is a bowl behind the door." Farielle says. She hesitates. "I was angry," shee confesses, her voice small. "I - I was going to, well, try. To marry him. If he was a decent man and would be kind to me, like you said. But he said I was an - an /object/, and he hoped he and the Lady Eruphel wouldn't be disappointed in their transaction, and then he said I would go around seducing my guards and having babies!" Her voice rises with the words, not in noise level, but in tension and remembered fury.

"Well, it was not very kind to call you an object," agrees Amestris with considerably less emotion than Farielle. "But he must have a reason to think you are whore who will seduce guards and have babies, though I was under the impression that babies come from such things so it seems rather silly to bring it up. But if you got angry and didn't ask him why he said it, I am not surprised he did not offer you an explanation - especially if you did not deny it." She reaches for Farielle's hand. "Come. I will show you how to make friends with your bird. He is too lovely to fear."

"I would never do such a thing," Farielle says, as if it is self-evident. "He should know that." She hesitates, nervously, but lets Amestris take her hand. "It pecked at me."

"He does not know you," observes Amestris. "And someone has likely lied about you. But if he knows that person... In your land, if one of your own said something bad about Lord Alprhos, or even me, you would believe them before even meeting us. It is the same for us."

She draws Farielle abreast of her, but does not try and approach the bird. "My mother taught me how to take eggs from the hens. If you hesitate they will peck you, so you must just reach in under the bird and take the egg. The chicken will recognize your mastery and not harm you. You must do the same with your bird. Show no fear or hesitation. Take a handful of its grains and approach it resolutely, hold out your hand. Do not be unkind, just confident."

Farielle's nod is hesitant, unsure. Perhaps that is how it was... but perhaps he is just an arrogant jerk on a power trip. She eyes the bird equally uncertainly. "It is so large..." But she reaches into the bowl and takes out some of the feed. A minute passes and then another before she takes a deep breath, squeezes her eyes shut and thrusts out her hand, palm open.

The egret turns its head with a graceful jerk, setting its beady eye on Farielle. It assesses her and trots over quickly, as if it means to drive her away. "Do not move," says Amestris, quickly but softly. And sure enough, the egret stops several feet short of the girl. It tilts its head to look at the grain in the lady's hand, then tentatively pecks at it, scattering a few grains as it takes some in its beak. "I have seen these birds in the marshy edges of the river - when I am allowed to go there. They eat fish. Do the servants bring him fresh fish?"

The Gondorian doesn't move - her eyes are still squeezed as tight as she can get them. They pop open when the bird's beak touches her hand - gently. Not drilling through skin and muscle and bone. "Oh," she says quietly, watching it with a dawning wonder in her eyes. "It ate out of my hand." She is enthralled now, staring at the bird as it eats. "I don't think so. I didn't look though." She doesn't say that she was afraid to get too near the bird, and too angry with Lord Alphros to want to. "Do you think it needs fish?"

"Yes," Amestris replies, glancing happily back to Farielle. "It needs fresh fish. I do not think it can live on grains alone, but I am not certain. Perhaps it rushes you because it is hungry and unhappy and wants you to feed it properly."

"Where is the river? Is it far?" Farielle sounds worried now. The grains are gone, and she reaches for more, holding them out again and laughing quietly when the bird takes them once more, as gently as before. "I could take it there..." Across her face rushes the realization that she probably can't, probably wouldn't be allowed to, and right after a stubborn refusal to accept that.

Amestris laughs, "I speak of the River Poros, near my home. It is many many leagues from here. It would take you three weeks to travel there. You can find fresh fish in the market. Does Seaward have a pond?"

"Oh." Farielle blushes. "I don't know if there is a pond, I haven't seen one. But if I can get fish in the market, if that is good enough." She watches the bird, smiling a little, then asks suddenly, "Does it matter what sort?" Her smile widens and turns to a soft chuckle. "I should take it, and let it pick out the ones it wants, itself."

This time the desert girl giggles in a way that might remind one she is not too many months beyond childhood. "It will make the fishmongers nervous. I think you should do it. But it must miss water." She thinks for a moment. "Papa says there are ponds in the training grounds where he drills his men. I am not sure if it is a proper place for a bird, but it is a public place."

"Ponds," Farielle repeats, memorizing a list. "Fish..." She grins at the younger girl. "I will. It should get to pick its own food." She stands up, stretching, and looks down at the large heron. "I should..." Her face tightens a little and she doesn't finish that sentence, saying instead, "I will tell the Lady I need to go out again." A little shyer smile. "Thank you. I was afraid of it, it is so large."

"You just did not know how to be friends with him," replies Amestris. "I suppose your family's animals were not put under your care. My father is important where we live but we all must work. You are more like Lord Alphros and his people - or the Towerlords. Slaves do most of the work - or servants. My tower does not keep slaves."

"You don't?" Farielle's voice is surprised. "I thought everyone here had slaves. I have seen them." She shakes her head. "No, I didn't do very much with the animals. I helped Mother in the house, with the stillroom and the herbals. My brothers worked with the animals. And our servants. We don't have slaves either. No one in Gondor does."

"I am not certain why Farside does not keep slaves," admits Amestris. "But they do not. Everyone who works there is paid. I have heard two stories, though. People have said it is the tradition of the Tower while others have said that the Lady prefers to be served out of loyalty. I have heard that Gondor does not keep slaves, either. That is why they kill our peoople when they capture them."

Farielle is silent. "I don't know," she says at last. "I have not heard of this, but... but I would not. I think." Silence falls again, broken by the quiet click-click-click of the heron's toenails. "I did not think anyone would ever do what... what was done at Caldur, so I don't know any more what to believe. Except that I know my father and my brothers would never kill unarmed people, no matter who they were. Never."

Amestris tilts her heads as she considers this. "My father would kill anyone that threatened our village and he fights for Farside. But I do not know about those who are unarmed. Though criminals are unarmed when they are killed." The girl shrugs. "I should return home, Lady Farielle. I will try and see you again, if I can. If not, I will send a messenger." She bites her lip, then speaks on: "I hope that I will return to Umbar and that when I do, you will be happier."

"I would like to see you again. But I will understand if you cannot come." Happy. Farielle's eyes lift to the other girl's and then drop again. "Thank you," she says at last.

The Bazhani girl reaches out to embrace the lady. "May you never thirst or hunger," Amestris says, smiling. Then pulling away, she leaves the room.

Farielle returns the hug, tightly, and when Amestris is gone, she goes to the door and speaks to the guards there. There is no reason to wait, after all. And finding fish for a heron will distract her.


	30. Chapter 30

Eryn Laegol: Manor of the Lord of Edhellond

The main hall of Eryn Laegol, manor of the Lord Girithlin of Edhellond, is a gracious mixture of the sublime and the rustic, of Elvish and Dunadan. Built as it is on the cusp of the sacred forests of Edhellond, the manor and its surrounding estate subtly blends into the countryside. Windows line the great hall, giving residents and guests alike a beautiful view of rolling pasture and lush, deep forest; everywhere is the sound of babbling brooks and whispering leaves.

The floor and accoutrements of the hall are of silver-white marble, trimmed with richly-appointed fixtures of burnished oak, dark mahogany and leather. Simplicity is favoured over opulence, though the details of the manor attest to its lord's wealth and taste, and its lady's grace and elegance. Hawk's lures, hart's antlers and the furs of foxes evince the lord's love of hunting; a saddle and bridle in a corner speak of his horsemanship as well. But there is a feminine touch in the lace, the satin, the thoughtful mementos throughout the rooms.

Carpets bearing the starry arms of Edhellond quartered with crimson and gold of House Girithlin provide a soft texture to the environs; these arms are repeated throughout the manor. Plush settees, deep-cushioned chairs and tables of polished wood and marble bring comfort and stability, as does the crackling fire beneath a mantel of grey stone. Here are all the necessities for a home and a refuge; an altogether inviting and restful place.

Greenish-golden light streams through the windows, dappling all it touches with the bright livery of the forest glens.

Clouds without... clouds within. Though the fire burns warmly, its light brings no comfort, no cheer - not these days. The lady of the manor comes through the room on some errand or other, and stops near the fireplace - as if her feet have forgotten how to carry her further. She looks blankly into the flames, watching without seeing, and her fine, beautiful face is drawn and old despite the lack of silver in her hair.

Lominzil enters, quiet and soberly erect, child's beauty a grim shadow of his mother's. He takes up a poker and sets to tending the fire wordlessly; he has said naught since returning from Dol Amroth, still clad in travelling gear.

Nelbrethil turns her head as he enters, her youngest son. Hesitating, she says at last, "Lominzil..." and reaches to touch his shoulder. "My son - will you not speak? Tell - tell me of yourself, these days. I have missed you so."

The young man gives the fire a few good prods, considers it with a tilt of his head, then returns the poker to its gilded rack. "Mother," he murmurs in a dry, unpracticed voice, taking her hand. "If you are well, then I am well."

The lady's face moves. "I am not," she says, her voice anguished. "How can I be well? Eruiglas slain, Farielle... " She stops, bows her head a moment, and then lifts it with a kind of desolate pride. "I will not give way," she says, almost to herself. "I must not... and I have you yet, and Gwaithmir when he returns, to comfort me." By some inner strength, she summons a smile, steadying her voice, and draws Lominzil to one of the chairs, sitting down beside him.

"Your father said he had asked you to speak with some of the Families, to find a way to send a message south...?"

Doubt flickers over Lominzil's face, and he sits stiff and straight in his chair. Still holding her hand, he answers, "I have failed, Mother. I spoke with Telpekhor and Bragollach, but they could offer naught but sympathy."

Nelbrethil's eyes shut a moment, her fingers clenching around Lominzil's. Then she opens them. "Then we will simply have to find another way. There was the Eagle that spoke with Gwaithmir. Perhaps he yet will return to our aid."

Booted footsteps sound in the corridor, and a man comes in, shaking off a damp cloak. "My dear," he says, "it is as well that you chose not to ride out today; the weather grows ever worse. I am told there is fever in Forman's house - " Caronnen's stern gaze moves to his son. "Lominzil." He sighs heavily, coming to set his hand briefly on the squire's shoulder. "What news?"

"The eyes of the Eagles are commanded far and wide," says Lominzil with a bitter smile. "What is Edhellond to Sulimo but a glittering speck on the Hither Shore?" Then, news of the rain. Caronnen's son turns to him, repeating levelly, "I can bring no help from the Families. We must wait, and not let the Southrons' designs of fear and despair conquer us."

"But he said he would aid us if he might," Nelbrethil says, stubbornly. "I will not believe such an one would speak only to forget his words." She looks up as her husband enters. "I will make up a bundle to be sent them - there are herbals enough and to spare for that trouble, at least."

The lord's shoulders sag. "Wait," he says bitterly. "It is not their daughter!" He pinches his lips together and takes a breath, letting it out slowly. "Thank you for going to them, son. We had to try." He turns his head to the south, frowning, as if he could see through the stone walls and across the water. "If I must, I will go to Harad myself," he says at last.

"We must wait, Father," Lominzil echoes calmly. "In this we are alone." A frown, then: "If Gwaithmir brings back the Prince Imrahil, he shall require your counsel. You cannot endeavor on such a task."

Caronnen's head turns towards his son, and he frowns at the boy from hooded, hawk-like eyes - as if he has heard some alien word from familiar lips. "You to counsel patience?" he asks, disbelieving. "Lominzil, what are you...?" The words cut off and the man glances at his wife. "Yes, thank you," he says to her, suddenly calm. "They will need our aid in this."

Nelbrethil looks back and forth between the two, a small, perplexed frown of her own creasing her forehead. But Caronnen's declaration overshadows her worry for her son's most unusual behavior. "Caronn! You cannot!"

"It is your duty, is it not?" says Lomin, poised deathly still upon his chair as for a blow, though a blue fire lurks in his eyes uplifted to his father. "Believe me, father, I know your heart. If I had a ship and permission to sail it, I would! But behind me there would be the rest of my family, waiting once again."

Those fierce eyes turn from wife to son, and Caronnen bends to take Nelbrethil's hand, lifting it to his lips. "I know my duty," he says quietly, looking beyond the woman to the young man. "Lominzil, I would speak with you further e're you return to Dol Amroth. I am sure the leave you were granted is not unending."

"I have been given a fortnight," answers Lominzil quietly.

Nelberthil squeezes the boy's hand tightly. "You must tell me all that you have learned," she says, putting aside her grief with an effort. "It has been a while since you were home last. I must go collect the medicaments - but this evening, perhaps?"

Caronnen nods. "Come with me to the stables," he invites his son. It is an equal effort for him to make his voice light and casual, and his eyes stray to his wife once more.

"There is a new colt I would like your opinion on."

Lominzil smiles. 'I shall,' he tells his mother, and then more softly, only to himself, "When it has been done."

Leaning forward to brush Nelbrethil's cheek with cold lips, the boy rises and follows his father. "Is it a child of Barahun?"

The stables of House Girithlin are tall and clean-swept, housing swift and elegant horses for hunting, riding, and war. Two damp figures walk slowly between the stalls, greeted by friendly velvet noses that hope for apples and carrots. But Lominzil does not see them; his eyes are fixed steadily upon his father in the low lamp-light.

Caronnen glances at the young man, then away, fixing his attention on the horses. He pats noses and necks, hands out carrots from a pocket, and is quiet. "Here," he says finally, as they come to a wide box stall with a mare and her new foal. "Not from Barahun, but one of his sons; I am hoping to breed a smoother gait into that line."

He leans his elbows on the stall door, and, still looking at the horse, says, "I have known you for twenty years now, Lominzil. Ever you have been a fiery boy; you cannot persuade me that in three days, you have suddenly learnt to be placid and calm." A pause. "I do not wish to speak anything before your mother. She has enough to weigh her down and darken her days. Nor will I ask anything of you - if you could speak, you would have done so." He dares a sideways glance, his mouth twisted in a half-smile. "Nor have you ever been wont to hold your peace, no matter how we schooled you."

Lominzil smiles back, his fingers tucked indolently into his belt as he observes the foal and its mother. "It is a fine child," he replies. "I hope it will be like to its father."

Caronnen's eyes rest on the boy's face for a while, and he nods, glancing back to the colt. "As do I," he says quietly, and perhaps he speaks not only of the foal. "And better... Take care, Lominzil. There are many dangerous paths in this world, and one cannot avoid them all." He sets his hand on his son's shoulder and grips it tightly. "I am proud of you, son. Do not throw your life away rashly, or in grief. If you must.." His throat sounds tight, as if he must force the words out. "Spend it well."

Lominzil's composure wavers, threatening to collapse at the slightest touch. He stares up at his father, expression wavering on disbelief, or ridicule, then returning to grief as a child would wear it, simply and utterly unconcealed. "I know it," he answers. After a moment's musing: "Have I been foolish, Father?"

"Young men are always foolish," Caronnen says, clearing his throat. "It is a hazard of youth... I cannot say, for I do not know what you are doing. I will ask you only this - " And now he turns to look Lominzil full in the face. "Swear to me on your name that in what you do, you do not break faith with the oaths you have sworn to the Knights of the Swan, and to your Prince."

"As surely as I am Lominzil Girithlin, your son," replies the younger man, his eyes a calm, eerie blue, "I will cleave to my Oath and duty as I have sworn before. If I act against this, father, think upon the honor of our family and do as you see fit with my life."

For a long moment, the older man holds the younger's eyes. Then he nods, satisfied, and turns back to the horses. "Remember," he says softly, "Your mother and I love you very much."

"I have always known it," answers Lominzil in a whisper, and then he, too, watches the horses.

...

_"Please, Lady, I must get fish for the bird, Amestris said it needs it." _

_Farielle remembered her words, and flushed a little, suddenly glad for the veiling cloth that hid her fair skin (and every blush) from those around. She had sounded like a begging child! But for whatever reason, the Lady had nodded, and granted her permission to leave the tower again. And now, she walked into the marketplace, surrounded by guards and trailed by the tall, black heron. At the last moment, she had decided to make the words spoken to Amestris true - the bird could come, and pick out its own fish._

_The heron strutted along, staring around it with beady, black eyes, and cocking its head at various people who get too near. It follows the Gondorian girl as if she has a leash on it._

"Lady," Khaan, one of the guards, exasperated looking, says, sighing. "If the sun bothers you so, then find a straw hat? Surely you must sweat in that wrap? And I'll not suffer punishment for you falling ill in the heat from foolishness."

Farielle glances over her shoulder at him. She is hot... the sun beats down unmercifully, and no air at all can make it inside the cloth she has wound about her face, no matter how loosely it is wrapped. "All right," she says at last. "Where do I find a hat? And - " She looks down at the black heron. "Where are the fish sellers?"

"Fish sellers...this way..." Khaan points in one direction. "Hats...uh...surely, there's a hat seller or basket seller here somewhere.." he looks around the market rather lost. "Do I -look- like I spend my time buying ladies' hats?" he snaps at the girl, finally.

Beneath a nearby awning, another watches this curious procession from a shady vantage, though the lack of fabric swathed about her burnished shoulders suggests a certain comfort with the heat. Soon Niakhti steps from beneath her shady cover with a slender hand to shield her brow from the sun's glare, her gown of amber silk very close to the color of her skin.

"I cannot speak for fish mongers, but for hats... I think I saw a woman with suitable wares aways ahead," she calls to the girl and the one she speaks with, even so simple a statement somehow suggesting amusement in its timbre, an idea that her smile is quick to confirm. "Shall I take you?"

"Do I look like I grew up knowing where to find things in this horrible place?" Farielle snaps back. She turns in the direction he has indicated for the fish, and says over her shoulder, peevishly, "Send one of /them/ to find it - they might as well do something useful besides follow me around... Oh." She looks uncertainly at the other woman, frowning a little, then apparently decides that there can be nothing sinister about leading the way to a hat stall. "Well - thank you."

"Well, get used to it because you -will- have to know these things. That is, if you remain free at all, which I doubt," Khaan says with a loud snort. He then puts a meaty hand out to try to grab Farielle back from following the local woman-the guard insisting on walking in front of Farielle, while two others flank her and the rest fall behind.

Noone goes for fish.

"Oh for pity's sake!" Farielle hisses indignantly as she is pulled back. She glares at Khaan - or the back of his neck - but follows perforce. It would be difficult not to, what with all those guards. The heron struts along beside her, croaking once in a harsh voice.

Niakhti's smile only widens at the bickersome exchange between guard and charge. "My my, it seems you are half a Lady already," she muses, not altogether loudly enough for the whole of Farielle's escort to hear, but with voice enough for Khaan. "And such good company to bring out the other half."

The guardsman's insistance is noticed, and remarked upon then with a certain playfulness. "I promise not to bite her," Niakhti assures in a honey-drenched alto. "I daresay if I did, that bird would have my eyes." A wary glance is cast for the girl's avian companion, and little more. "But would you prefer to walk between us?" Here she places herself in the path of the procession, a brow raised for Khaan, though the smile that accompanies it is not unkind.

"You can stand on my right," Khaan answers Niakhti gruffly, gesturing. "And someone get that bird some fish!" he barks at the other guards-two go running off to obey, though not the two on either side of Farielle. "And it is not your bite that I worry about," he adds with a grin to Niakhti.

Farielle gives Niakhti a swift look - should she be insulted by that, or not? But she doesn't say anything, only glances down at the bird; and her expression isn't much different as she regards it for a few minutes. The heron stretches its neck and half-raises its wings, then folds them primly against its back. And Farielle favors Khaan (or the back of his neck) with another scowl.

Laughter is Niakhti's answer, along with a charming smile for the guardsman as she falls into step at his ordered side. "Honestly, what other weapons do I have against blades and armor?" she asks with dark, smiling eyes that suggest full knowledge of more subtle kinds of weaponry. "I wouldn't lift a finger." Here Niakhti casts a smile to Farielle across Khaan's chest as she begins a leisurely stroll down the row of shop stands. "Any upstanding woman of Umbar would strive to set an example for our pale transplanted flower of the north, if she is indeed to remain." The lack of emphasis upon the last added thought is an emphasis in itself, surely. But it is not left to linger long between them. "I cannot say I know what fashions the Northron women choose for themselves. Kindly explain, if you will?"

"Fashions? I hear the Stonelander women wrap themselves from head to toe in a rough cloth sack, the better to avoid the attention of men and of their husbands. Certainly their pale skin is indication of that enough!" Khaan laughs, then looks with interest to Niakhti. "You could show her how to dress properly? Or is it that this Lord Alphros wants a stone cold northener too? Who are you, in any case?" He says, suddenly remembering he's supposed to be guarding Farielle.

"Only something that will shade my face," Farielle explains to the other woman. "I burn in the sun." Then, purely femininely, she adds, "Blue." She glares at Khaan again, sniffs and lifts her chin, refusing to respond to his (entirely false!) accusations.

Though she does not laugh with Khaan, Niakhti's eyes retain their sparkle of amusement as she appraises Farielle's dress from head to toe, unapologetic of any sense of modesty the girl may have retained. "I am Niakhti of Desert, good sir, and I am worried today only for what goes upon her head. We should let Alphros worry about the rest, yes?"

As they draw even with a shop displaying an array of elaborate scarves and headdresses in bright embroidered silks, the woman looks again to Farielle. "There is enough here to keep your face fair and modest, Lady Farielle, if that is what you wish," she says, the words 'fair' and 'modest' spoken with a certain distaste that she does not seem entirely bent on concealing. "Blue, you say? I should think Eruphel would appreciate the gesture."

"Niakhti of Desert...I am Sergeant Khaan of Seaward... a pleasure, yes...and uh...blue...sure,..." Khaan says, not even paying attention to Farielle. Two soldiers come running up with a sack full of fish just as they reach the hat shop. "Over there," Khaan says, gesturing for the men to hand the sack to Farielle.

Farielle's face suddenly becomes hard, and she glances at the Seaward guards' uniforms, then at the multitudinous shades available. "It is not to keep my face fair," she says, her voice clipped. "It is to keep myself from dying of sunburn." A sack of slimy, smelly fish is thrust into her hands and she grimaces at it, almost dropping it. The heron shows no such hesitation, pushing up to her and thrusting its beak into the sack's mouth. With a twisting motion, it flips the fish, catches it head-first, and swallows.

"You needn't worry for that," Niakhti answers, echoing words uttered not long ago. "If you are going to die, Farielle, I shan't think anyone would have that would be the way." Her words are offered with a cruel levity and a smile that shows traces of neither shame nor portent - perhaps in a carefully-practiced fashion - before her nose wrinkles anew at the smell of fish.

"How came you into the company of this bird, anyway? Lord Alphros wished less lonely a cage for his future queen? Or another gift from Seaward?" This she asks looking between the girl and her Seaward guard, though her next words are more for the latter where he stands between the women. "With a marriage awaiting and Farside's claim to the stone land being readied, surely her watch will be eased soon enough? Or are there yet doubts for her safety?"

Khaan does his best to hide his amusement as the sack of fish is given to Farielle, but he speaks to Niakhti in reply. "Lady Seaward found her. I wasn't involved in that. But not until she is the property of Farside..one way or another, can we drop our guard. Alphros's Queen or else I escort her to the slave blocks, that is. Or maybe the Lady will take her as a slave. Still, there are many in Umbar who would just as soon slice her throat."

Farielle looks up from the sack she is holding extremely gingerly. She seems about to jerk away every time the heron snatches a fish - but never does. "Why thank you," she says with sweet, false sincerity. "And that is not the shade of blue I meant." Anger flashes into her eyes at Niakhti's next words, and she looks away, refusing to answer. Concentrating on the bird, perhaps she isn't listening to what Khaan says - but under the fury, there is a strange determination; even though a faint tremor runs through her slight body at the mention of slave blocks.

Niakhti blinks, considering Farielle for a moment as a cat might regard a mouse struggling beneath it's claws. "Then by all means, do choose what you will," the woman purrs, exchanging a few words with the shopkeeper, a sunworn older woman who brings forth a hat large enough to be an awning, and adorned with enough embroidery and bangles to blind a man in the sun. "Since you will not say what you wish, beyond not to burn to a crisp, perhaps I ought to leave the choice to your noble guard. Surely he would be an apt tutor in dressing to keep the attention of your husband, as he so doubted your kind to do on their own." She looks to Khaan as if for confirmation, still with every pretense of the utmost decorum despite the cutting edge that the words themselves lend. "Pity," she adds to Khaan in afterthought, to no favor given to either option he names of the girl's life or death.

"Me?" Khaan laughs, shaking his head. "It's a woman thing. You fuss with it...and buy one for yourself, Niakhti," he says, fllipping a coin to the Desert Tower woman. He seems bored...and irritated...by the shopping expedition, and goes to stand guard on the pair with a distant look on his face now.

"No," Farielle says after considering the first offering for a few minutes. She looks past the woman into the shop, her eyes running over the different things available to wear on your head. Then they stop on one in particular. "I would like to try that one, please," she tells the shopkeeper, nodding towards a brilliant sapphire-turquoise blue hat with a sheer bit of fabric hanging from the brim an inch or two. There are no bangles, no embroidery; nothing save a twisted cord of a slightly darker shade about the crown.

"Or perhaps two for you," Niakhti offers to Farielle, though barely loud enough for the girl to hear as she glances sidelong with narrowed eyes at the back of Khaan's head, perhaps not knowing what to make of the man's gesture. "We have gotten off on the wrong foot, haven't we?" the woman of Desert concedes to the Gondorian through a sigh. "As many people as your -guard- say may wish to slit your throat, Farielle, I am hardly among them." Genuine though her smile may be for the girl, there is still little apology in her timbre or mien for the repeated mention of Farielle's theoretical death.

The elderly shopkeeper, though watching Farielle with eyes warier than afforded to most of the market, makes a grand smiling display of offering the chosen hat. In two upturned hands, with a good-natured bow.

Farielle glances down at the fish-bag she is still holding, makes a face, and fastidiously wipes her hands on the outside of it. They were hardly dirty to start with; she had been being so careful not to touch the fish, or any part of the bag that might be slimy. Then she unwinds the cloth about her head, and puts the hat on. It fits. "How much is it?" she asks, opening a small pouch of coins. "Have we?" she asks Niakhti, her voice mild. And then, most politely, with a smile of her own, "I am sure you would not."

Before the shop woman can answer for the hat's cost, Niakhti leans forward to place Khaan's coin upon the modest counter. The sunworn woman looks calculatingly between her two patrons and says nothing, as if wondering to herself whether an answer withheld would lead Farielle to pay for the hat a second time over.

Niakhti pays no mind to the woman's conflict, however, affording an appraising stare to Farielle. "It seemed plain enough to me before that you need not hide it now," she murmurs low between them, amused. "Tell me how I may correct the impression of the future Queen?" Her smile remains genuine, though somehow the question still suggests a reversal of apologizer and apologizee.

"I can pay for it," Farielle protests, while the heron, having satisfied his desire for fish, takes to preening his wings. They glisten a glossy black in the sunlight. The girl turns her gaze on Niakhti, frowning just a little. "I do not think that you intend to slit my throat," she says. "I do not think that you particularly care if someone else does either."

"Perhaps not," Niakhti returns with a shrug of slender, bronzed shoulders, truly indifferent to the notion by every testament her manner can offer. "I know aught of Farielle - of Girithlin, was it? - beyond that she is the daughter of my presumed enemy, brought south against her will as a spoil of a war that I have no part in. Would you have a care for my neck, if I were you?" Pragmatic and plain, perhaps, but not unkindly spoken. "Have you ever spent time outside of your city of stone, Lady Farielle? Before you were wrested from it, of course."

The shopkeeper nods to Farielle at her expressed desire to purchase her own wares, but as Niakhti makes no move to take back the coin, the woman merely looks to Farielle with a wary but expectant glance.

"But I can't correct my impression of you if I am not wrong," Farielle answers, holding out a coin of her own to the woman, and nudging Niakhti's back towards her. She doesn't seem offended. "I wouldn't want to see you killed, no." She looks up then, the frown remaining, though for a different reason. "I never lived in a city, before Dol Amroth, a year ago," she says. "Do you mean Minas Tirith? I haven't been there, though I hear it is indeed made of white stone throughout."

Niakhti listens to Farielle's account with full interest, though its import remains veiled behind amber-sparked eyes. "But it is very different in the ways of law and justice, yes?" she asks, though clearly with expectation of an answer that is perhaps already known, for she continues readily. "Have you ever seen another killed?" She muses, perhaps echoing the Gondorian woman's words in a more literal manner than they were meant.

The shopkeeper, meanwhile, squirrels away the coins Farielle offers into a dusty, faded pouch at her waist, leaving Niakhti's refused wealth where is rests, but holding it in the corner of her eye as she sees to another peruser of her wares.

"I do not know your laws of justice," Farielle answers. She sounds as if she doubts there are any. A hesitation, "I have not. Not be killed - I have seen people die." For a second, she sounds very young; it hadn't been pleasant, watching those men die and being able to do nothing to help them.

"And what was their crime?" the Desert woman presses further, her own voice more hushed with a mind for Farielle's hesitation. But as with most things that Niakhti speaks of, it is offered without the apparent sentimentality and emotion for the subject.

"Their crime?" Farielle sounds completely bewildered. "They had committed no crime. They died... " She hesitates then says, "For following other men's orders. In war."

"All men have a crime," is Niakhti's matter-of-fact answer, spoken back over her shoulder as she begins an idle stroll along to the next stall along the market way - a pair of men pushing an array of many varieties of dried fruits and nuts upon the passers-by. "And though you may have seen little of war in your city before now, it shall be seen again before your throne is secured."

Once Niakhti is safely three steps from her counter, the hat saleswoman snatches the coin into her purse, resuming every attempt at nonchalance in the moments that follow.

"No, they don't," Farielle says indignantly. "Do you mean /everyone/ here goes about committing evil deeds?" She looks around at the throngs of suddenly entirely incomprehensible people. "I don't want a throne," she says finally, quietly. "Though I am told that people think it means I am stupid when I say that." About war, she says nothing. War is never-ending; just because she has not seen it herself, doesn't mean it hasn't existed, for all the years of her life, and before.

"Evil!" Niakhti echoes in merry disbelief, the very word spoken akin to a laugh. "That is a bold judgment to make in their company, don't you think? Crimes may be wrought of many things. Of evil, yes, but also of loyalty, lust, and countless other sentiments. Have you no guilts of these sort yourself? No sordid deed, no closeted passion?" In a passing pause the slender, silk-clad woman appears to consider something for a moment, all the while ignoring the fervent, near-shouted pleas of the fruit peddlars. "I do not believe you are stupid for wishing the throne to another. But surely you must know why others would think so."

"I am supposed to be ambitious and think only of what will further those ambitions the most, and how I can use such a position for myself," Farielle says, as if reciting something. "I don't care. I know ambitious people and they are hard and cold, and will do anything for power, and I will not be like them!" She sounds suddenly, perhaps unexpectedly, fierce; for all that she looks so delicate. But the edge to her voice is short-lived, swept away by puzzlement. Dark things in her past? "You mean..." she asks uncertainly, "Like the time I stole Cook's apple tarts and ate them all myself in the barn and got dreadfully sick? I was 6, I think..."

Niakhti laughs more outright at this. "If that is all you would claim, then you are as rare a flower as Lord Alphros could hope for, I am certain! Indeed, like faulting bird for its wings!" The last thought trickles into quieter laughter before the Desert advisor remembers their own avian company, sniffing idly in the direction of Farielle's bird before the mirth in her voice is once more a quiet amusement. "You may not want power. Indeed, you may not wish to further your purpose above other worthier people. But surely you see what awaits you if you do not play the part." She pauses, a slender brow quirked. "Though I cannot say I envy either the alternative."

"I do not lie," Farielle says simply, looking as if she is unsure if she should be offended or not. "I have done nothing I know of..." Her voice trails off, and she swallows. "I don't know what will become of me." Her voice is quiet, hopeless. "If I do not marry him..." She does shiver now, the shadow of fear that is always in her eyes - though sometimes hidden deep - coming to the surface. But it is still underlain by the same determination.

"Then you will be enslaved, or put to death," comes the end of Farielle's thought in a less affected voice than the Gondorian girl herself would be likely to grant this truth. "And you, Lady Farielle, do not strike me as one prepared to die."

"And yet..." Niakhti murmurs more quietly, perhaps taking advantage of Khaan's retreat to the rear of the guard, coupled with the shouts of vendors in a desperate effort to sell their wares. "...If you come to terms with your fate and stand at Lord Alphros' side as his Lady, then you will watch many more of your Northron kinsmen die." It is not a question, true, yet Niakhti remains in careful study of the girl's face, as if waiting for some answer to become apparent there.

Farielle lifts her head proudly, but doesn't answer - not directly. There are other guards, all nearby, all listening - if with but half an ear. She dare not speak. "I do not wish to die," she says in apparent agreement; there is a tiny emphasis on 'wish'. "But if I do not marry him, it will not end his plans, nor stop that war. He will only find himself another woman." Blue-grey eyes flash with some remembered anger or bitterness. Bitterness comes to the forefront. "He, after all, is the one who will choose and not I."

"And if choose you could?" Niakhti presses the girl quietly. She does not deny anything that Farielle has said, but dark eyes unashamedly seeking the cracks between the facades of her pride and conviction. Neither does she seem to fear any attention from the northern woman's guard on the matter.

"What think you? I would go home." There is no need to hide this; surely anyone would know it. Farielle reaches up to adjust her hat, making sure it shades all her face and neck - and hiding her expression. "But I do not have that choice; though my father would pay for my safe return, none listen."

Niakhti scoffs somewhat, though her honeyed voice does not falter in its wake. "Oh, you have been heard, I assure you. Money speaks quite loudly, and I need not know the names of those you have pled with to know that they have listened. But just as well do you know that Alphros does not want for the wealth of your father and his House of Girithlin," Niakhti answers, the Gondorian name strange upon her lips.

Another pause for consideration comes with a few meandering steps taken to another stand, this one bearing swathes of fine woven fabrics that slip easily beneath Niakhti's slender fingers. "Were it me... perhaps I would let you return to him. Or perhaps I would kill you, and your kinsmen me. I find it best to avoid such musings entirely when circumstances do not permit them ever to come to pass."

Again her voice quiets here, however, and an almost conspiratory smile is wrought upon her lips. "But perhaps you are braver than I. In your choice between a throne and a tomb, you look to a third. I have heard that about you, and would not doubt it now that we have spoken."

Farielle glances at the cloth with a faint interest. "But I do not have that choice," she points out. Behind her, the heron struts along. One of the guardsmen has picked up the half-full sack of fish.

_They kept saying this. That there would be war. Farielle didn't understand how that would be different - they were always at war. But an unease crept into her thoughts. If Lord Alphros were truly the King returned... would he need to take his throne by force of arms? By the death of the people he claimed would be his own?_

_She was silent as they returned to the tower. _


	31. Chapter 31

_Father knew. Lominzil guessed this when he crossed the threshold to their cold, mirthless home, that perhaps Caronnen Girithlin was not so even-tempered, so measured as his fellow council-members would extol him. Once, he too would have girt a sword and sailed south, and perhaps even now, the thought lingered._

_For Mother's sake, they spoke nothing of further grief. Here, for the nonce, they lived in the present. The last son idled his fortnight of leisure away, sitting with her by the fire though both felt no warmth, saying naught. Caronnen would permit him to lead Barahun's latest descendant about Edhellond, to sit idly as the little colt frisked about in the fragrant meadow._

_Once, Gwaithmir had the fool notion (in the middle of the night, no less!) to bring Farielle and Lominzil there in search of Faeries. It had been true that the Silvan elf-folk lived here in days of yore, yes, but a bleary-eyed Lomin was more content to dream of them instead. Now he caught himself smiling, and sighed._

_He had two weeks. A fortnight. Then he must return to Dol Amroth and hold himself ready. There might yet be time then for studying; the Prince's library would probably hold more than their own. But he had no idea how soon the Draugrim would want to go; if they would wait on his timing, or if they had some agenda of their own. And either way, his heart burned to be gone, to be doing. To find his fate and meet it, not wait tamely for it to appear on his doorstep. Lominzil pulled down another heavy tome, setting it with the others on the library table. _

_The gong for supper surprised him, jerking his head up from squinting at the writing. There was so little. He rubbed his face, frowning, then looked around the room, crowded with the collections of his father and father's father and father's father before that. The gong rang again, and he pulled himself away from his studies, striding swiftly towards the dining room. He wasn't looking forward to the meal. His father hardly spoke, and though his mother tried, her words failed her like a stream swallowed up in dust._

_As soon as he decently could, Lominzil fled back to the library. To see them both suddenly old, the pathetic courage that made his mother smile and talk about their tenants as if nothing was wrong - the steel will that kept his father from ever once betraying that the empty places at their table broke his heart - and most of all, to hear them both carefully /not/ talking about his sister... He couldn't bear it. Haradaic. There must be a book somewhere, by some scholar enamoured of the southlands, that could teach him some words of the language._

_But when he sat down at the table, he didn't reach for the scrolls that surrounded him; instead, opening a small packet with careful fingers and spreading several scraps of paper out before him. Slowly, he began to read, though he knew by heart what was written there. _

...

August 05, 3008

Dearest sister,

If it is true that word has passed to Gondor through the Haradrim blockade, then perhaps you shall have news of us soon. We ourselves did not know that Sir Brannon and his ships had escaped but for his absence the next morning, and for Sir Imrakhor's announcement, grim but triumphant.

I do not know the mind of my Captain now - not that I claim to have ever known the decision of the Council that sent us here, thinking that Prince Imrahil might be held in this place. It seems almost a lure, knowing our thirst for vengeance, and we being led by a madman.

I do not begrudge him his Captaincy, for we are inspired to fight by something like fear of his wrath, but I am afraid for what will happen to us all should his madness be allowed to continue.

Yet in times of war it is men like Imrakhor Bragollach that Gondor needs most: men who know to hate and strike out against those who hate us equally. We have come to Caldur so that the Corsairs need not visit Dol Amroth.

I hope you and Mother and Father are doing well. Has Losse had her kittens? You must count them for me, and we will raise them together when the Knights return, for I am certain that we will return, and the Haradrim cannot stop me from even swimming back to Belfalas once this fighting is won...

You are in my heart always.

...

August 19, 3008

Dearest sister,

I write this with a weary but triumphant hand - Gondor has come! At dawn, four warships - how I rejoiced to see the tall masts and clean square sails! - docked at Caldur harbor and took the siege camp by surprise. It was a grievous struggle for the beach, and we in the Keep had not the might to go against the Haradrim from the other side. So we stood watch upon the battlements. Perhaps they will soon press into the city, and we may cut out a path and meet them.

It was then that Sir Imrakhor discovered a traitor in our midst: a man who presumed to wear one of our sailor's gear, but the slave-mark of Umbar was tattooed upon his neck. Perhaps he had been sent to weaken our resolve, or do us treachery by undermining the watch upon the gate - but we shall never know.

The Knight-Captain hung him by his feet before the gate, ere his Umbarean mistress came to cut him down. I believe he is now dead. The man was of Gondorian descent, Farielle! Imagine what dark sorcery was done to sway him to their side.

I think the Knight-Captain is wholly mad. In the darkest hour he asked if I ever loved anyone - romantically, that is, and I told him about Alasse (the girl who married the Pelargir cloth merchant while I was still a Page). He was overtaken with laughter as we fought off a wave of the siege, and then nearly throttled me with no warning.

Does madness come easily to those gifted and noble Dunedain? If so -

Our eldest brother Eruiglas just discovered me writing, and sends his love too. He, too, wishes to know about Losse's kittens, and hopes dearly that they will find a good nest in brother Gwaithmir's delicately brushed suits. (I was terrified when Eruiglas snuck up on me, so - the last time it was stern Sir Aramore and I stuffed your letter into a crack in the wall! I am afraid I couldn't find it afterwards.)

... now, where was I? Sir Imrakhor also bestowed upon me the title of Blue Squire - a promotion I would have been glad to receive in nobler and more opportune times. Now it feels like I am scavenging off the titles of our many dead. And I do not particularly relish being the squire of the Knight-Captain.

I hope you are well.

...

August 3008

Sister,

The fighting is fierce and blood coats the ground always; it rises from the stones like morning mist. Caldur burns. We have set it on fire so that when the Haradrim retake the keep, they will find nothing but ashes and dearly-bought slain. We fight in waves, for the soldiers of Gondor are taking the streets of the city and the Southrons meet them with ferocity, pushing them back with arrows and swords and cries.

Sir Imrakhor and many of our folk have opened the gate and gone to meet them, and the rest of us see from the battlements that they have succeeded in joining the Gondorians on the beach. The rest of us will prepare for another day, that we might break out also. But now hope is frail and Caldur's smoke blots out the stars, and my thoughts numb.

Farielle, our brother has died. He went forth with Sir Imrakhor, and the Southrons cut him down with their swords, their curved swords, and trampled his body in the dust.

Gondor will weep for his fate, his and many others. Some would bemoan his death as needless, and grieve for a brave and generous life cut down in its prime. My heart wishes earnestly that Eruiglas were alive still - that he did not have to find death in this place. I would that he were Caronnen's heir and lived to have many children, an elder of the Girithlin house, and served his Prince faithfully til the end of his days. That last part is true. Call not his loyalty into question.

I have come to understand that we are born of Gondor, and our loyalty is sworn to Imrahil our Prince. If we seek him and then begrudge him our very lives, then is our Oath but breath? What worth have mere words if we are afraid to shed blood for them? And what binds us to fealty if we shrink from death itself?

But we have not yet regained our liege-lord. How many more must find death ere he is found? How many more fruitless quests?

Tell me that you are well, and then I will be well. Comfort Father and Mother, and Gwaithmir too; his will be a heavy burden to bear.

Lominzil Girithlin

...

August 3008

Dearest Farielle,

It has been only a few days since I last set my thoughts to paper; how swiftly do fortunes change! The hosts and knights of Gondor til now lived upon the edge of a knife. Now we have escaped Caldur upon the white-sailed warships, headed north with a swift and clean wind. Soon we shall be in Dol Amroth, that strong and beautiful city that stands upon the rock of our home, so like and yet unlike Caldur's strength.

The sea-spray and salt wind washes over our tired faces, scouring us of blood and soot and thoughts of wrath. I awake as from madness and find my sword scarred and pitted, stained with blood; my own appearance is gaunt and horrible. These are overwhelmed by the joy that I shall see you again, Farielle! We shall be at home again in Edhellond. Until now I have written to you with no hope that these letters would be read, but now we shall meet face to face.

Yet even now I am afraid. I fear that Gondor will see us and recoil in disgust. It is true that we have been loyal to our Oath - perhaps over-zealous in its execution. I ought not to speak of what we have done to Caldur. Farielle, I have killed the Secondborn of the One who alone grants life, and to whom we having died are called again.

It is true that they have turned to worship of the Darkness and the lord thereof, and they met us with hostile intent and may have taken our Prince. Yet at the point of my sword not all of them were armed and armored, and not all were able-bodied, angry men.

How far a path can we plough with our swords before we are like them? Even now as I turn and see smoke rising from Caldur, I shudder to know that we have done such things that Haradrim might have done to Dol Amroth, should we not have struck first! Farielle, forgive me, for I have fought like an animal and acted like one also, and I would claim to have done so in order to see my family. I would do such things again if we were separated again, yet the ache and the fire and screams remain in my mind.

The Knight-Captain will likely take the worst blow from his own people, but none of us are clean. Farielle, uphold me to Oath and Virtue. We must be loyal, yet we must also be compassionate. How difficult these are now that our dark deeds are already done!

...

August 26 3008

Dearest Farielle, wake me.

Tell me that this is but a lie - that you are still safe in Edhellond, or Dol Amroth, and not captive in Harad! Tell me that I am sleeping and will wake soon to our home, or the healing-house - even waking to a cold window ledge in enemy Caldur is preferable to your nightmare, Farielle.

I know that House Girithlin is a house of lions, yet what rash bravery led you to travel with Gondor into enemy lands? If it was for love of your kin, Farielle, I am sorry that our steps ever led you thither. And now there is no one left there in the South to comfort you, save the soothing lies of the Enemy. Do not listen to them! If only I had known, my little sister, if only I had done something!

I know you are lost, perhaps frightened, but have hope in this: I will bring you out of that place, just as you sought to rescue me from mine. I will go into the very heart of Umbar to find you, if that is where you are now.

Dol Amroth is pale and colorless without your laughter, Farielle. Your brother signs this with a broken heart,

Lominzil

_Farielle, he thought, folding them up and putting them away. I am coming. Wait for me._

...

_There was one more thing. Farielle struggled with herself; she didn't want to speak to the woman who ruled this tower any more than she had to. The one who offered her to a man as if she were a flower or .. or a piece of candy. But if there was any chance, any hope - it must be done. She would request an audience._

Sunlight fills the room, touching the backs of books, the wood of ladders, a desk - and the black hair of a girl who threads her way slowly through the bookshelves, apparently trying to read the titles as she passes. At least until the study comes into view. Farielle looks around the room, then takes a breath and enters. This room the Lady had said. As always, a guard trails after her; but it seems she has managed to make the heron remain behind.

Eruphel enters her study, a tired look on her face. She begins to divest herself of scarves and sashes and accoutrements of office, laying these items on a table. If she notices the girl, nothing shows in her demeanor. But instead, without looking, she says, "I apologize for being late. I had some business to attend to."

"Eruphel you -need- to start laying down for a rest now and ag-" Comes a man's voice from outside the study before Lord Eron enters the study as well. When he is through the door and spots the Gondorian, he stops speaking, and looks between Farielle and Eruphel for a short moment before going to the bar and pouring himself a glass of wine.

Farielle says nothing, but nods. She looks a little nervous, and takes a minute to compose herself again before opening her mouth. "Lady, I ..." She stops and twists to look at the new speaker, and turns even whiter than usual.

Eruphel turns as Eron enters, smiling, even though he chides her to get rest. But noting the Gondorian woman, he seems to clam up. Funny. But then Farielle also, whatever she was going to say is likewise squelched. The Tower lady takes a deep breath, breaking the silence. "It sounds as if we need to clear the air here. Farielle, if you have any grievances against my Lord Husband, I would like to hear them now." She looks at Eron, her expression conveying that he will be next.

"Her Grievance comes from my mindset whilst still in Caldur and I thought her nothing more than spoils." Eron says aloud. "I may have mentioned Mara having a use for her if her ransom proved unacceptable.." Eron says, as if the notion was nothing outrageous. Drinking from his wine glass he grins over the lip of it to Eruphel. "Found your armor yet? I'm curious how well my men hid it."

The girl swallows, blinking, and darts a glance at Eruphel before staring back at Eron. In a voice almost a whisper, she says, "He said he would - would have me given to him for a sacrifice." There. That all came out without her voice shaking.

Eruphel's look is cool, almost in the range of cool disbelief. "Given to the Eye in sacrifice?" she smirks. "I can think of much better uses. And now," she looks at Eron meaningfully, still speaking, "I am sure he can find better uses for you too. So do not worry about that. Wait..." Her eyebrows scrunch together as she replays the recent conversation in her head. "You let your men hide my armor?" Her disbelief causes her voice to rise an octave, and the exasperation is evident. "Why would you do that?"

Eron laughs as he sips from his goblet again. "Myself, and all the Serpent guard feel you'll have no need for it for some time. I assure you it is in good repair and held in high safety..." The Lord husband is suddenly ALL Serpent Commander. "Do you really feel need to raid and skirmish with Gondor while you carry your heir?"

And Farielle is silent. Motionless. Maybe they'll both forget about her entirely. She looks at the desktop, watching the other two from the corners of her eyes.

Eruphel takes a deep breath. "Well what if I need it within the walls of this city? Assassins abound, do not forget. I don't drag the Serpent Guard around with me because I like the attention." She starts quickly removing the rest of the pins, and each one thuds resonatingly on the table heavily. "And what is your gripe against her?" Eruphel asks, motioning to Farielle.

"I have no gripe against her, save that she is the daughter of my enemy." Eron says blandly. "And you can have protective garments commissioned. I do not believe a boned bodice will be good for your figure as our child grows within you." He adds.

The Gondorian dares a swift glance up at Eron when Eruphel asks what gripe he has against her. There is the faintest frown line between her eyebrow, as if she struggles to comprehend some word spoken in a unknown tongue - and isn't entirely sure she wants to.

Eruphel takes in a deep breath, and gives an exasperated sigh. "Very well, no bodices! I will rearrange my wardrobe for the next year or so." she says, throwing up her hands in defeat. "And Farielle may have been born Gondorian, but let us not fault her for her birth and upbringing, and give her a reasonable chance at happiness, shall we?" She turns to Farielle now, asking, "So what was it you were going to say?"

From somewhere, Farielle find courage to continue, lifting her head and doing her best to ignore Eron. She stands very straight. "Lady - I don't want to marry That Man." Despite her best efforts at sounding reasonable and calm, an edge of anger bites in her voice at the last two words. "My father will pay well for my safe return." Behind her back, her fingers turn white from the pressure of clasping them together.

Eruphel's face squinches, and she shakes her head, once more in disbelief. "That Man? Lord Alphros? Why in the world not? He may be king of Gondor someday, which would make you Queen. And even if he does not achieve that end, you will likely live well for the rest of your life." She steps foward, to take the girl by the upper arms in a distant embrace. "Come and sit."

The lady's hands grip her arms lightly, and Farielle lets herself be put into a chair. She clasps her hands in her lap and regards them intently for a long minute before speaking. "I know that everyone here thinks I am lackwitted. But is power truly the thing people here care for most of all, that my eyes should be so dazzled by the title 'Queen' that I would forget my - " Her voice quivers slightly. " - my family, and be content to be tied to a man who thinks I - I am but an object to be insulted and mocked?" The tone of her voice is not that of one trying to offend; hurt and homesickness and unhappiness vie with humiliation and outrage at the memory of that moment in the garden.

"Power is one thing, but the comfort of life is tied directly to a man's affairs. If you so choose, as queen find some farmer who'll brighten your eyes. I suppose not everyone has the opportunity to marry for love.." Eron says dismissively as he seats himself in a nearby lounger, sipping his wine content in his defeat of his wife's will.

Eruphel's reply nearly escapes her lips, when Eron's reply sums up the response adequately, with an added bonus. She gives him a glare for that. "A loveless marriage might be your lot, whether here or there. And if Alphros succeeds, it is your family you will be with again...in Gondor. I know you have been to the Marketplace, and along the way, you have seen many beggars and urchins, I am sure. They know no comfort, and merely exist day to day. Powerful men are men with coin, and coin buys comfort." But Farielle's tone is not missed by the lady, and she probes gently. "What insult and mockery? I have never known Lord Alphros to do such."

Farielle's head comes up and she glares at Eron, her fear of him momentarily banished by anger. "I am not so dishonorable!" For a few minutes, she stares at him, then looks back at Eruphel, fury dying away. "No, even at home, I might not have loved my husband. I would like to, but... " She shakes her head a little and tries again. "My father would never choose for me a man who would give me no honor or care. And - and if Lord Alphros doesn't succeed, I will never see my family again, and what is being Queen to comfort me in that?"

She looks away, flushing, and darts a glance at Eron. Finally, reluctantly, she answers, "He said I was but an object, and a - a whore, and then he s-said it was but a jest and I had no sense of humor, and if this is the action of a man of honor, he will /never/ be King in Gondor no matter his bloodline, and I can't - I WON'T marry him and be treated thus!" Looking up at the lady, she repeats herself from earlier, "Truly, my family, we are not paupers; my father will pay you whatever you ask."

Eron rolls his eyes as the Woman of Gondor continues to beg for a ransom rather than vows. "A woman of such good standing reduced to such..." he says quietly, apparently her outburst amusing him in some fashion. For the most part, he doesn't not interfere with Eruphel's line of conversation with the woman.

Eruphel gives Eron another look, perhaps appreciatively. Then, back to Farielle. "Alphros said you were an object and a whore?" Her disbelief is evident in her tone. "That sounds not at all like him. If anything...he is rather shy around women, or such has been my experience."

"He said," Farielle's voice is almost expressionless, she is holding herself so tightly, "'You are an object in a transaction between Lady Eruphel and myself.' And, 'I don't want you to go around seducing some innocent guard and having light-skinned babies who will call themselves princes of Gondor,' and, 'I see they didn't teach you young ladies of Gondor to have a sense of humor.' And 'it might not have been funny, but it was telling.'" She can't keep the growing fury out of her voice no matter how hard she tries; it is underlaid by a profound misery.

Eruphel blinks, surprised. "I...have to say I am surprised. I will...see if I can find Lord Alphros and I will ask him about it. If that is what he thinks of you, then you can expect he will reject you, in which case, I may well ransom you back to your father." She looks at Eron now, to see what he would add.

"Such affairs go beyond my scope, I select an option from three. where as the two of you find only two. I leave delicate things to delicate people." Eron says with a grin as he stands and sets down an empty wine glass. In fact, I must depart. I need to speak with some members of your guard, Eruphel. I feel it may be time to select a Lieutenant. Ladies." He says as he bows and departs.

"I don't know why he said those things. I would /never/ do that!" Farielle sounds almost like she might burst into tears - it must be hurt pride, she can't truly care what Alphros thinks of her. "And..." But a blaze of hope transfigures her face, and stops her words. And whatever Eron says or means doesn't dim it; she nods to him as he goes, without even thinking about it.

"No, I imagine you would never do that, which is why you are a candidate for his marriage bed. And yes, you are the potential basis for a transaction between Alphros and I. As in, if he likes you, I will receive a reward. But I do not present you to him because I need money." Eruphel's voice softens now. "Alphros is...one of the most admirable men I know, dedicated to a cause he may never achieve, or might not survive. So dedicated, that he has never put thought into the necessity of marriage and child-getting, which is very important. I admire Lord Alphros, and I want the best for him. You are...not perfect, Farielle, but a very good hope. I want good things for you, Farielle, and I want you to make him happy. Have you ever seen my Orrery?"

"But why would he say such things, if he is so admirable? I - I wanted to know if he would be kind to me. I thought maybe I could marry him, if he was kind. But I didn't even get to ask, and I couldn't look at his face to see what is written there, and ... and those were not kind things!" Farielle's voice wobbles. "How would I be perfect? If I didn't love my family, and cared for nothing but my own ambitions, no matter what it meant?" She stops, and blinks hard, and keeps the traitorous tears from falling. Dully, "No. What is an Orrery?"

"You can still love your family, dear, and love Alphros. Indeed, if Alphros succeeds, once again, then you will be in a unique position to protect and benefit your family to the new King. What better love can there be than that?" Eruphel takes a deep breath and sighs, shaking her head. "I will get him to reveal himself to you. And then perhaps you can reveal yourself to him. As for the unkind things he said, I could perhaps draw an apology from him as well. Come, see the Orrery." She leads the woman to a coner of her study, where a strange contraption sits. It is a map of middle earth, with a depiction of the heavens and the depths as well. Stationary rings orbit the middle plane, with depictions of the Valar and Ainur, elves, orcs and men all played out in a small diarama. Eruphel takes the rim of the orb and turns it, and the sun moves across the sky overhead. "Magnificent, is it not? It gives one perspective on the world overall, and makes you think outside these thick walls."

Farielle only shakes her head, mutely. The dichotomy is too great for her to imagine; a Harad King in Gondor... "I would rather he not apologize," she says very quietly, "If he only goes on to do the same sorts of things again." Following the other lady, she looks at the strange creation, slowly starting to actually take in what it is. "Oh... I have never... " Cautiously, she reaches to touch it with a finger. "Where are we?"

"He understands women ill, Farielle." Eruphel says softly. She reaches in to the orrery, pointing to a place where the sandy colored world meets the blue representing the sea. The sandy part is colored with actual fine sand, in fact. And there is a tiny city depicted, hardly more than a step. "We are here." She moves north, hardly more than a couple of fingers width. "Gondor is here. Side by side." She stares at the map, and makes the sun go over head, and then the moon. "Gondor and Umbar are like siblings, constantly fighting. We even share common blood lines, I am told, somewhere in the distant past."

Farielle touches the outline of Gondor's coast, then moves her hand out of the way of the moon. "I want my parents," she whispers, in pain and longing. "My brothers..." She is unable to say anything else for a while, and turns her face away, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. When she can talk again, voice a little rough, she says, "My histories say this, also. That when men came from Numenor, they made cities in the south as well..."

"I have been told we must fight, or your people will see us as weak and attack us, and we dare not let that happen, for we must be strong against our Enemy."

"Hmm." Eruphel says, the sound almost like a laugh. "We /do/ see your people as weak." She sighs and moves away. "I do not know what motivated my people ten years ago, or thirty years ago, to fight Gondor. I only know why I fight Gondor. My father is dead at their hands, and I take up his cause. He is a Hero, I believe, and somewhere, I think he sees what I do."

"What do you think is strength?" Farielle asks. She says nothing about Eruphel's father - equally as many people are dead at Harad hands as at Gondorian.

"Strength is many things, Farielle." Eruphel answers. "Strength, for example, is not in weeping, or wishing. Strength is in doing, in knowing, in holding someone to a promise, or forgiving them for breaking it. Strength is in fighting, and in waiting for fighters to return. There are many kinds of strength. Gondor seems weak, because they are...soft, yielding...it is hard to explain."

The look the girl gives her is puzzled, and in part, incomprehending. But she seems to understand - or think she understands - one thing at least; for the hope that had still burned in her eyes starts to fade. "You value hardness," she says at last. And politely, "Thank you, Lady, for showing me this map. I will take up no more of your time; your husband surely wishes you to rest."

"I suppose we do. Or rather, softness reveals expoits." Eruphel says. "I will retire early, but tomorrow, I will look for you, and perhaps we can face Lord Alphros together. And feed fish to his cats." she says amicably, like promising a walk in the Zoo. "Oh, by the way? This Orrery was gifted to me by Lord Alphros, to help me see the whole world, not just our little piece of it."

Farielle only nods and turns away, walking slowly back out - through the great library stacks - down the curving hallway to her room.


	32. Chapter 32

But she can't bear to stay there, restlessness and hope and fear and disappointment keeping her pacing from wall to wall until, in a fury at herself, she goes outside. The heron follows.

Evening has fallen - abruptly, as always this far south - but it is still warm. Farielle sits on the ground beside a small pond, leaning against a rock, and looks up at the sky. The stars still bring her comfort, and she can lose herself among them, and find some small measure of peace from the turmoil in her heart. Something black and angular stands one-footed in the water near her. A small breeze is beginning to blow in off the ocean, rustling the branches of the vegetation.

A crunching noise is accompanied by soft footfalls - Nisrin comes slowly down the path, eating a bit of fruit freshly plucked from the orchard. Her face is slightly bruised, not that it is very visible, and her scimitar is hung across her shoulders.

Farielle tenses at the sound, her breath coming shorter, but she doesn't look around. A black shape detaches itself from a tree trunk - one of her guards who glances at Nisrin and then relaxes back against the trunk again.

"We're in the Seaward Gardens," Nisrin scolds the attentive guard, peering over his shoulders on tip-toe. "I do wish you weren't so tense. Nothing is going to attack you here, right?" Grinning, the Haradrim girl strolls closer to Farielle, plopping down onto the pond-bank beside the Gondorian.

"As you say," the guard replies. "Lady Seaward was most - urgent regarding the safety of her 'guest'." He gives the last word a full measure of sarcasm.

Farielle's shoulders hunch at his tone, but she does her best to ignore him, smiling a little at the other girl as she sits down. The bird in the pond shifts and gives a sleepy croak, moving its head just enough to peer at Nisrin with one bright eye before tucking its head back into its feathers.

"Just don't sit on any snakes," calls Nisrin over her shoulder. Then, turning to peer at Farielle and the bird in the pond, "What is that thing?"

A snort is her reply, the guard returning to his watch.

"I - don't know. I mean, it's a bird, of course, but I don't know what sort. Amestris said that she has seen them along the river banks, and it eats fish. And follows me around." Farielle sounds half-vexed, half-resigned - but her expression as she watches the heron is more affectionate than not. It has been pleasant to have a companion - and one that neither orders her about nor criticizes her.

"Oh," says Nisrin, tossing the core of her fruit into the pond (although not at the bird). "Does it fly? How do you feed it? I did not know we had many fish in Seaward, except for one goldfish pond that the cats quite enjoyed. The fishmonger?"

At the splash, the heron's head uncoils and it stares at the rippling water for several long minutes before tucking it away again. And Farielle twitches nervously. "I .. don't know. I haven't seen it fly. Someone goes and gets it fish from the markets." She shifts her position, then shifts again. "What have you been doing?"

"Fish are good," purrs Nisrin happily, tilting her head to admire the heron. "So it is your pet!" She looks over to Farielle. "I have been training. Except it has been a long time since I last picked up a sword," looking down disapprovingly at her muddy clothes, "and I did not do very well."

"I... yes. I think." The older girl shifts again - it is as if she is sitting on small sharp pebbles, and cannot get comfortable - except that the ground beneath is soft and springy with a sort of moss. She glances at Nisrin, her eyebrows pinching together. "You - like to do that?" she asks tentatively.

"Yes," answers Nisrin, resting her chin on her knees. "Well - yes. But I would much rather be sailing." Why, she does not mention. "But our house is renowned for its prowess with arms and Eron says I must do it, even if I am clumsy as a Mumak, because otherwise it would be shameful!" The girl rubs at her face. "I don't like getting hit much."

Farielle is silent for a minute, starting at some sound from the garden, then glancing back up at the stars. Looking at them seems to calm her. "You sound like my cousin," she says, her voice almost dreamy now as she stares up at the glimmering white sparks so far away. "Only her mother tells her she must learn to paint whether she likes it or not, for our house is renowned for being patrons of the arts. She would prefer to ride."

"Riding is terrifying," shudders the Haradrim girl. "In the desert they have Mumakil and camels and great lumpy creatures that smell. And they are not of much use on the coast. Do you know how to ride?"

"Yes, of course I do." Farielle sounds a little surprised. Doesn't everyone? "But.. Mumakil? What is that? Haven't you any horses?" She has looked away from the starry sky and sounds almost enthusiastic. "I can't believe that you go around letting people hack at you with a sword, but are afraid of riding. Lomin and I would race each other across the hills. I won," she adds smugly, then for fairness, "But probably only because I am smaller."

"Mumakil are ... great big animals with noses and tusks. There are not so many in Umbar, but in the desert, where it is bigger ..." Nisrin waves her arm vaguely. "We do not use horses much. It is much too hot, and they drink lots of water."

"If you are supposed to be small," the girl says, glancing sidelong at the Gondorian, "your brother must be very large."

"I am short," Farielle says, an echo of an old grievance in her voice - she has never grown, even to match her mother! "My brothers are all much taller than I. So are my parents. So are nearly all of my cousins."

"Tusks!" She wrinkles her nose. "That doesn't sound like much fun - but you would like riding a horse, I am sure you would. And it isn't hard at all. Why, I began to learn when I was but a baby!"

Nisrin purses her lips. "I received my first sword when I was six," she answers. "So I think we are balanced, there. But maybe you will get a horse in the future," the girl encourages brightly. "Some of the nobility have them for show, because camels are lumpy and like to spit."

This is not, perhaps, so encouraging as Nisrin might have hoped. All the pleasure drains from Farielle's face and she looks away, staring at the black lump of the heron standing in the pond. The stars shimmer on the water's surface, and behind her, one of the guards coughs. The other is silent. "Yes," the older girl says, her voice dull. "Perhaps." She leans forward, trailing her fingers in the water.

Diamonds in the sky, and stones below. It seems the perfect night to speak in friendly terms amongst one another. A Lady of House Hashikh and the could-be Queen of Gondor. Such a perfect set up for someone wishing to strike fear into the mass that is Umbar, and send a message to the would-be King of Gondor. The silence is numb as the two girls talk, the breathing of the creatures around them, and the guards Lady Eruphel assigned to Farielle having been tuned out. Soon though, it becomes substantially -more- silent.

If one were to look from the guards towards Seawards gates, one would find the twin guards at the iron missing, though upon closer inspection there are dark wet spots where once they stood. Soon a low whistling grows louder, and blurs of movement strike into the field of vision of both women, as well as the mist of red Vitae erupting from Farielle's guards. A roar from the gates heralds six black clad men, four of which engage the alerted Tower guards that sweep towards the gate as another moves to sound a call to arms.

Two men rush straight towards Nisrin and Farielle. One an enormous man whose hooded face is shielded from view. The other...

Is Vain.

"Step away Daughter of Seaward. Our fight is not with you..." Comes an obviously artificial voice from below the mask of Blood splattered Alabaster as mirrored eyes do not betray who Vain looks towards. But a Shamshir, a weapon of Nurn, is pulled from a scabbard with a hiss of violence as the hulking man moves towards Farielle, in an attempt to grab her by the arms.

Nisrin bites her lip, trying to answer Farielle. The silence is eerie - almost oppressive, and she cannot think of anything to say. She stands up to look around and then they are surrounded, and the ground is wet with blood. A swift glance at Farielle, and she pushes the other girl, trying to drive her closer to the pond and her bird. "These are Seaward grounds. It is very much my business!" answers Nisrin, her lip curling. She draws her scimitar, a heavy heirloom-like thing with a blue stone in the handle. "What is your intent?"

It is very quiet indeed, but Farielle hardly notices. Until the silence is shattered by sounds... She turns, her eyes wide with shock, and stares at one dead guard; then lifts her gaze to the enormous man coming at her. Nisrin shoves in front of her, and the Gondorian scrambles to her feet, backing into the pond and looking around wildly.

The heron stirs, pulling its head out of its feathers and turning its long, wickedly sharp beak this way and that. Then it spreads its wings and gives a hoarse cry. As if a spell is broken by the sound, Farielle screams as well, and feels around her. Her hand closes around a rock, and she hurls it towards the attackers with all her strength.

"As you wish, Hero Worshipper.. The Eye claims this vassal," Vain says, as he watches his brute take the rock cleanly in the chest. Alas for Farielle, the stone bounces off of metal audibly. "Take her NOW," Vain hisses, quitting with subtly. He and his man leap into action at the same time, one to secure the prize, another to send a message to Seaward.

The Shamshir is lifted, and with strength and speed befitting a form twice his size, Vain slashes towards Nisrin, the heavy weapon screaming towards the void in armor, where hip meets torso.

Nisrin cries out as the leather hem of her vest tears, spilling more blood onto the ground. "She's not yours to take," hisses the Haradrim girl, limping towards the masked figure with scimitar raised. "She is Eruphel's ward and no vassal of yours. The Tower guard will be here any moment." She cuts out at the figure's legs, hoping to slow him down.

Farielle feels around her for another rock, but finds nothing - and then it is too late. The gigantic man's hands close around both her upper arms, and drag her from the pool. The girl struggles, still yelling; and the heron adds its share to the chaos by pecking at the man's legs - as if he is a cat to be chased away - and buffeting him with its wings, and squawking.

The hulking back kicks out to silence the Heron before speaking. "Got her, boss... Let's go..." He hoists Farielle over his shoulder and takes off for the gate. The others of the raiding crew disengage their opponents and flee as well. The bird screeches, and takes to the air, coming to rest in the top of a nearby tree.

Vain lets out a harsh laugh. "Failure again, Lady Hashikh...Yes, we know you...Sleep carefully..." he says as he lashes out, but only half heartedly as he too turns to escape.

Nisrin hisses furiously as the Eastern blade cuts her forehead and blood obscures her vision. "Who are you?" she yells, limping after the retreating figure.

The Gondorian girl pounds her fists on the back of the man carrying her off, trying to twist away - to kick him - she'd bite him, if she could.

The voice echoes through the courtyard as Vain and his men depart with their prize. "Vain speaks for The Eye. The Gondorian woman will serve her purpose in life!"

And they are gone.

...

_His time was up, so swiftly. Lominzil strapped his packs to his horse, trying not to think about the wasteland he was leaving behind. The lush greenery of early spring was as nothing before the ashen desert of his parents' silences. He spurred the horse out of the courtyard, letting the pre-dawn drizzle spatter in his face and not wiping it away. It hadn't even wet the road; he would not melt in it. He had bidden his mother and father farewell the evening before. Now, he grudged every moment that it took to ride to Dol Amroth. As dust rose from his horse's wake, his parents found a letter waiting upon the mantel._

_..._

Father, Mother,

I must go. By the time this letter is read, I will surely be upon the road away from home once more. I beg forgiveness for deceiving you both, for I leave not to my squirehood in Dol Amroth, but upon a farther road that I have requested from my Knight. Lay no blame upon Sir Imrakhor; though he is a man called to answer for many things, this task was of my own appointing.

To be called your son has been an honor of greatest worth, and Iluvatar grant that I do not dishonor our blood. Indeed, I go because my blood compels me to restore the unity of our family; so, we must be parted for a time. There is much I cannot say; therefore, I can leave you only my deepest love.

I am sorry.

_..._

_A few days later, he was there, riding wearily down the cobbled streets. He sought out Lord Imrakhor, who looked at him enigmatically and told him to care for his horse._

_Lominzil barely stopped the sharp words on his tongue, and bowed silently, turning away. Once his mount was stalled, brushed and fed, in warm straw; he paced up and down the narrow confines of his room, before remembering his purpose - was it only a week ago?_

_From then until Lord Imrakhor called for him, the squire spent in the great libraries __of Prince Imrahil, reading everything he could find that had ever been recorded of the Haradwaith, and committing words to memory, though he had no idea how they should be pronounced._


	33. Chapter 33

An encouraging author's note: Things do get better, eventually. Honest.

* * *

The third day after the theft of Farielle. Those sent in pursuit have returned, having lost their trail, and after reporting to the Tower Lady of their failure, Eruphel is back to square one. Its early morning, and the sun is barely risen. The bodies of the slain lie in a row, bundled up in burlap and ready for burial. Thankfully, the air is cool, which is helping to preserve them a little. But they do not have long. The lady of the tower stands in the courtyard, surveying the dead. What she wishes is that she could be debriefing the dead. But they say nothing.

Dirt-stained, sweaty, and covered in dust, Khaan is one of those now returning in frustration from the search-but such is the urgency of this mission that he does not stop to clean his uniform before reporting to the Tower Lady, whom he now approaches. "My Lady," Khaan calls, approaching, "I have found someone who says he is a witness."

The witness bows awkwardly. His clothes are those of a poor man, simple and patched - but clean. Mostly. His fingers are gnarled and stained. "Lady," he repeats, and looks uncertainly at Khaan.

Eruphel turns, her face grim with anger and aggravation. She wears softer clothing these days, no doubt a result of her "delicate condition," which still doesn't show, but she still conducts herself with crisp movements and regal bearing. "Sergeant Khaan," she greets formally, yet gruffly, inclining her head next to the assumed witness. "Ah...I see. You may then be one of the best chances the tower has of recovering the girl, other than my esteemed sister-by-marriage. What is your name?"

"Speak when the Lady addresses you!" Khaan snaps at the man, reaching a hand out to pull him forward to stand beside him. "And you are to tell her your story when she asks."

"Serran, Lady." The man stumbles forward at the yank, and hurries on, looking anxiously from Khaan to Eruphel. "I heard screaming. And saw these men running out the gates. Was..." His dark, lined face twists with an effort of memory. "... seven or eight of them. Carrying some girl, screeching fit to wake the dead."

"I don't doubt that." Eruphel says, smiling at Khaan for his enthusiasm. "So you were in the garden, when it happened? Or here?" She turns her head to look at the garden, then turns toward the gate, trying to imagine the details.

This time Khaan just glares at Serran in expectation of an answer.

"No, Lady, outside." Serran jerks his head towards the gates. "Going home. I hid." If he flushes at this admission, his face is too dark to show it - and hiding is probably why he is still alive.

Eruphel's mouth opens wide, and she ah's softly, smiling graciously. But still, her face is pained. "And which direction did they go, from the gate?" Then she turns to the Sergeant. "And then your report, Khaan. You look...tired."

"That way." The man points and volunteers a little more information. "Biggest man I ever saw, him as was carrying her. Had a hood on. And the other fellow, he wore a mask, with red on it, like blood splashed all over."

Khaan coughs and frowns and then looks to Eruphel, saying, "I apologize for the poor information but he was the only one I could find. There are tracks into and out of a pond-smaller tracks and then larger tracks of a man's boots. A very large man. I understand that Lord Eron's sister was wounded? Has she been questioned? Oh, and the Gondor woman's heron is still here."

"I am impressed you found him at all, Sergeant." Eruphel muses softly. "And if this is the best you could find, then it is no wonder that your trail died quickly. I want you to work on the assumption that she is still within the city. Where better to hide a person than among a great many people. And we should pay a visit to the Dark Citadel." She sighs, shaking her head. "That will be tricky. And yes, I believe Nisrin was wounded. She has not yet been questioned." Eruphel paces back and forth a few steps, then stops and turns to Khaan. "The heron? Too bad it is not a dog that could now sniff her out. I will ask around, about it. Meanwhile, you have done your duty well. Go get cleaned up, and rest. You're more useful to me fresh, Sergeant."

"Yes, Lady," Khaan salutes. He looks to Serran, about to say something-but changes his mind and walks briskly to the barracks instead.

Uncertain if he should stay or go, Serran hesitates, glancing towards the gate, then back at the lady. "Lady - do you need me more?" he asks finally.

Eruphel nods at Khaan, tilting her head a little as she watches Khaan retreat. Then she turns to Serran and asks curtly, "What tower are you affiliated with?" Her tone seems to append an unspoken 'before this', but she waits for a moment for the answer, looking the man up and down for his dirtiness.

"Ah, Flame Tower, Lady." Serran bobs his head again, his retreat halted.

Eruphel nods, and pulls from her pocket a gold coin. "I will pay this to you," she says, holding out the coin. It is quite a bit of money, by the standards of most. "And I will pay one of these to your tower for you to remain in Seaward till we get this resolved. A retainer, if you will."

Serran's eyes widen and he stares at the money - quite possibly more than he has ever had in his possession at once - "Y-yes, Lady," he stammers. "If - if my lord permits." He doesn't yet reach for the coin, though he can't tear his eyes from it, opening his mouth as if to say something more, and then shutting it again.

Eruphel hands him the coin, pressing it into his palm and curling his fingers around it for him. "Keep it. I will deal with your Lord and make it right. Now, I want you to get cleaned up as well. Use some of that coin for new clothes. Or, if you do not want to spend it, we can find livery of blue." She smiles a little meanly, certain the man will not accept the offer of clothing.

"Thank you, Lady." Serran bows, clutching the coin. "Clothes, yes." He turns and scurries towards the gate, opening his hand once to see if it is really true, and then hiding the coin somewhere in his faded garments.

...

_Pain. There was nothing but pain. The ropes that cut into her arms and legs had hurt the most, at first, but now the aching of those bruises were lost in the greater agony of muscles forced to stillness. Farielle could no longer remember how long she had been here. She was tied to a chair, she knew that. Sometimes, she was untied and strapped to a bed. The change in position was both an exquisite relief and an anguish of its own. _

_Sometimes, she slept, drifting in and out of pain-filled dreams. Sometimes, she was given water to drink, hard bits of bread were thrust into her mouth. She chewed automatically. Everything was dark. A cloth was tied over her eyes, but she thought it was dark beyond it as well. There was no sound. She never knew if someone was in the room with her or not, or when a waterskin or glass would be held to her mouth and her head tipped roughly back. All she could do was try to swallow and not choke. Water ran down her face and neck, soaking her dress._

_And then the whispers began. _

_She had caught words in the beginning. Had understood them, known what they meant. But no longer. Now it was just an intermittent static, lost in the greater noise of screaming muscles. She tried to focus, tried to hear the words again. Anything, anything to take her mind away. She thought she heard 'Lord Alphros', but she wasn't sure. Her thoughts unravelled and spun away into fire. She was unravelling. _

_When the man came, she wasn't aware of it, until he was untying her. She sagged into his arms, unable to hold herself upright. He held her, carried her to the bed and let her lie there, unbound. Slowly, through the passage of several ages, the pain ebbed. Farielle felt fingers in her hair; the cloth about her eyes was gone. She blinked, tentatively, and for the first time in she had no idea how long, saw a dim shape moving in the dark room. She lifted a hand to her eyes, hissing in a long breath as she tried not to cry out. Were her eyes really open? Blinking a few more times, she decided they must be. _

_"Hush," came a quiet voice. "They must not know. Don't make a sound. I've brought you something to eat." He helped her to sit up, supporting her while handing her a piece of cheese. _

_Farielle tasted it hesitantly, but at the first explosion of flavor on her tongue, she devoured it. He gave her another piece, and then some sort of roasted meat. She had never tasted anything so good in all her life. A piece of bread, soft and good, spread with another kind of cheese. The man held a cup to her mouth, helped her to drink. It was just water, with a strange metallic flavor to it, but it tasted as good as the cheese had a few minutes ago. _

_"Who... " she started to ask, but felt his fingers on her mouth, quieting her. _

_In her ear, he murmured, "My name is Arthadin. I have come from your family. We must find out what these men want, so that we can get you home to them."_

_"Home?" Farielle repeated, her voice so soft it was barely a breath. She fixed her eyes on his face, searching for reassurance. For proof. Could it be true? She wanted desperately to believe him, but she was afraid to. _

_But he nodded, smiling. She was warm where he held her against his side, one arm behind her back, supporting her. He even smelled nice, she thought, inconsequentially. _

_In the same, soft voice, he whispered, "You mustn't say anything. I do not think anyone suspects me, but I dare not be caught. I will come again. Be brave and do whatever they tell you." He stood up, and she swayed a little as his support was withdrawn. _

_"Lie down. It will be a while before anyone comes; you can sleep comfortably until then." He waited. _

_Farielle could see from the faint gleam of his teeth that he was smiling down at her. Was he telling the truth? She couldn't tell. At last, she lay down stiffly, forcing herself not to whimper as he moved towards her, but he only drew the thin blanket up over her shoulders, and then backed away into the darkness. She thought she saw him sit down, but something moved in a corner and her eyes flicked towards it._

_..._

_Among the detritus of the city - beggars, cripples, thieves and more - there is a new inhabitant. Of indeterminate gender, stooped and limping, wrapped in a ragged robe, head veiled. He - she - it drifts along the streets, stopping now and then to stare blankly at a wall, or a section of street; or to thrust a hand out to beg a penny or hunk of bread._

_Jarad, curious as all small boys are, followed it along the street, squatting down when it stopped to stare, jumping up to run after when it started up again. Slowly, winding their ways through alleys and side-streets, they criss-crossed the city. The sun sank lower, and Jarad, bored, was watching a beetle crawl along a brick, when he realized they were all alone. _

_Wide-eyed, he began to back away, but the figure drew its filthy cloth from about its head, revealing a young woman who grinned at him and held one finger up to her lips for silence. From fear to excitement in but a moment, Jarad's eyes sparkled eagerly and he came towards her. _

_"What're you doing?" he whispered._

_She ignored his question, asking one of her own. "Are you hungry?" She held out a roll to him. There wasn't any mold on it, and it looked soft, not dried into a crust. "I bet you know these streets better than anybody else... have you seen anyone strange lately? Men? Or a woman, with skin white like bones?"_

_Jarad snatched for the bread, cramming it into his mouth, and shook his head. When he had gulped it down, "Bones?" he asked, still whispering. "Is she sick or something?"_

_"Or something. Look, I want you to listen for me, all right? If you see her, or hear anyone talking about her, come and tell me. You can find me at the docks; if I'm not there, put this ribbon in the hole in the last post down. I'll know it's you, and come. And if you see her, don't tell anyone else." She held out a blue ribbon to him. _

_"What'd she do? Did she run away?"_

_"No, but she's lost, and I'm trying to find her. If you hear anything about her, I'll pay you."_

_"How much?" Jarad demanded. Bragging, he added, "I know all this place. There ain't been nobody strange around. Less they come at night or something."_

_"A penny. And fish. It's better than just bread."_

_The boy nodded again, a serious look settling on his small face. He spat into his hand and held it out to seal the bargain. _

_Nisrin spat into her own and clasped his smaller hand. As he darted off, she drew the cloth about her face again, and headed for a different section of Umbar. Street boys heard and saw almost everything; if they had heard anything of Farielle, she would hear it too. _


	34. Chapter 34

_Among the detritus of the city - beggars, cripples, thieves and more - there is a new inhabitant. Of indeterminate gender, stooped and limping, wrapped in a ragged robe, head veiled. He - she - it drifts along the streets, stopping now and then to stare blankly at a wall, or a section of street; or to thrust a hand out to beg a penny or hunk of bread._

_Jarad, curious as all small boys are, followed it along the street, squatting down when it stopped to stare, jumping up to run after when it started up again. Slowly, winding their ways through alleys and side-streets, they criss-crossed the city. The sun sank lower, and Jarad, bored, was watching a beetle crawl along a brick, when he realized they were all alone. _

_Wide-eyed, he began to back away, but the figure drew its filthy cloth from about its head, revealing a young woman who grinned at him and held one finger up to her lips for silence. From fear to excitement in but a moment, Jarad's eyes sparkled eagerly and he came towards her. _

_"What're you doing?" he whispered._

_She ignored his question, asking one of her own. "Are you hungry?" She held out a roll to him. There wasn't any mold on it, and it looked soft, not dried into a crust. "I bet you know these streets better than anybody else... have you seen anyone strange lately? Men? Or a woman, with skin white like bones?"_

_Jarad snatched for the bread, cramming it into his mouth, and shook his head. When he had gulped it down, "Bones?" he asked, still whispering. "Is she sick or something?"_

_"Or something. Look, I want you to listen for me, all right? If you see her, or hear anyone talking about her, come and tell me. You can find me at the docks; if I'm not there, put this ribbon in the hole in the last post down. I'll know it's you, and come. And if you see her, don't tell anyone else." She held out a blue ribbon to him. _

_"What'd she do? Did she run away?"_

_"No, but she's lost, and I'm trying to find her. If you hear anything about her, I'll pay you."_

_"How much?" Jarad demanded. Bragging, he added, "I know all this place. There ain't been nobody strange around. Less they come at night or something."_

_"A penny. And fish. It's better than just bread."_

_The boy nodded again, a serious look settling on his small face. He spat into his hand and held it out to seal the bargain. _

_Nisrin spat into her own and clasped his smaller hand. As he darted off, she drew the cloth about her face again, and headed for a different section of Umbar. Street boys heard and saw almost everything; if they had heard anything of Farielle, she would hear it too. _

...

Seaward Tower: The Underhall

Tall and broad is this great chamber: high-roofed and wide-walled. Carved out from the solid earth at the very roots of the Seaward Tower, it appears to be a hall of much grandeur but no specific purpose, more a testament to the power of the folk of Umbar than anything else. The floor is paved with smooth multi-coloured tiles wrought of stones of sea-like hue, and the smoothened walls are hung with tapestries depicting the history of the Tower. Beneath the hems of these vividly-woven draperies march the tall, proud statues of Lords past and proud: the men and women who guided the fate of Seaward in years now past. They ring the periphery of the hall, for at its heart is a wide pool of icy water ringed by tall pillars and long benches for sitting. A strong salty scent pervades the chamber, suggesting that the water has come hither from the sea via a long and hidden underground tunnel.

The great lamps that hang upon iron chains from the ceiling are burning brightly, though their glow is transfigured into a warm azure hue by the coloured glass that shutters the lanterns. The number of people here is not great during the evening hours, though four warriors of the Serpent Guard stand or pace hither and thither on duty.

"So," Eruphel says, looking over her shoulder as Azradi follows her down the stairs. "I get visits from the Lady of Farside often. But what brings Azradi of House anAzulada to my Underhall?"

"Can you not guess?" Azradi asks, a smile lingering from an earlier topic. "The Gondorian girl, Farielle. My brother has still not revealed his intentions toward her, which means he also has not rejected her out of hand. Which means she is of interest to my family...and this abduction as much an insult to us as it is to Seaward. I have come to learn what I can and to join your efforts if it is possible. I spoke to one of your guards and learned the story, but I would know more about what you have done and wish to do to retrieve her."

Eruphel looks pained. No, angry. "It shames my Tower, that the City should see that we were robbed of such a jewel. Not even burgled; robbed." Eruphel's brow knits together. "One of the sergeants who was in charge of her care has taken point in the effort to recover her. There was a witness, a man of Flame tower, who is under my coin for now, at least, until we can get her back. And Nisrin also witnessed the attack. But I hear she has been out much, and I never seem to find her at the right time. I hope she is also looking for the girl." Eruphel paces a few steps. "My first instinct is that she is here in the city still, hidden. It makes sense, for it is simple to lose someone in crowds. But I suddenly recall that when /I/ was kidnapped, I was kept on a boat. I should have the harbor searched."

"I spoke to this man from Flame and your Sergeant," says Azradi, nodding her head. She moves to the pool's side and lowers herself to the ground. "I feel your pain, my friend. And here is where Lady Farside enters the conversation: This Vain must be found, executed and his men disbanded and treated likewise. He has attacked a Tower, killed guards and abducted your guest. This cannot go unanswered by either of us."

Eruphel nods emphatically. "His activities in the city have been...ignorable. Tolerable. Though, for a while it seemed his activities fell silent. I even thought or hoped he was dead. But it seems not to be the case. And now, he is bolder than ever." Eruphel says darkly, angrily. "But I am more concerned with recovering the girl at this moment than exacting revenge."

"Yes," Azradi agrees. She pulls off her slippers and eases her feet into the pool, pulling up her gown to mid-thigh to keep it from getting wet. "I think I will publically denounce this act, make a call for her return and lend you a few of my men for the search. You have it in hand quite admirably, so my men are for show only."

"My real work will be quieter and focused on Vain and his men. I will set a reward for any information about this group, 'The Blood'." She grimaces as she says the name. "Such impudence! I doubt any of those men are of the Blood." Shaking her head, she continues. "I will see what can be learned from the city's underside. This Malik and his challenge worries me a bit. If he succeeds in calling out Vain and slays him, finding the rest of his men might become trickier."

Eruphel pauses, considering. "I like that idea. In each mission that goes out looking, there should be at least one man in Farside livery, to show the involvement in both towers. How many men, were you thinking?"

Eruphel goes to one of the stone benches by the cold salt water and sits, crossing her legs. "And I have little worry that Vain will accept Malik's challenge. He does not strike me as one who does anything openly, and does not relish anything close to a fair fight. However, if I am wrong, we would be wise to post spies in the shadows, to follow him as far as they may...or to follow his men, should he lose."

"I will send you as many men as you wish," responds Azradi, turning and shifting so one leg rests on the pool's edge, the other still dangles in the water, as she can see Eruphel. "They will be told to follow Seaward's command on these search missions."

She falls silent for a few moments as she considers. "Yes, I believe you are right about Vain - he is unlikely to answer the challenge. But if he does, I will surely post spies about the Square of Judgement."

"Have you spoken to the High Priestess yet?"

Eruphel nods in agreement to the first and second points, and slips off her shoes to run her toes in the water. But, no more than her toes. "I have not." Eruphel says, her brow suddenly furrowing. "Why do you ask? I do not recall you being prone to rely on her help and wisdom any more than necessary.

"Your Sergeant told me you intended to," replies Azradi, "I was under the impression it was because the abductor was heard to claim her for the Eye. Though I do not think the Citadel is behind this. If they had taken the girl, some moron of a Priest would be prancing about the city boasting and threatening and otherwise spouting other Fanatical nonsense. And you are correct," she continues, a grin spreading across her face, "I am not inclined to seek the Priestess' aid."

"Oh yes." Eruphel says, turning her face away, looking worried. "I have not been thinking clearly, I suppose, which is part of why I have delegated this task to others. But please, do not mistake that this matter is not important to me." she says by way of apology.

"I suppose this is a result of pregnancy?" asks Azradi, wearing an expression of genuine curiosity. "How have you been feeling?"

"I have been feeling like I have had too much pampering, coddling and fawning." Eruphel answers quickly enough, like she's had time to think over that one already. But it doesn't seem directed at Azradi. "And...a little bit disappointed at your brother's lack of congratulations." She sighs. "But I suppose it is to be expected, considering."

"Alphros is consumed by his ambitions," sighs Azradi, pulling her leg from the cold water. "I have not had a proper conversation with him since the last battle of Caldur, either. I have tried, but we can never find a time we are both available." She looks suspicious, "You do mean you haven't seen him, yes? And not that you have seen him since it was announced, but he said nothing on the matter?"

"I have not seen him, nor received any correspondence. Though I believe he has been to my gardens at least once." Which turned out disastrous, btw. "But you soothe my feelings, Azradi anAzulada. If he can scarce find the time for you, whom he loves, then naturally he cannot find the time for me, who he likes."

"Yes, it is important to remember it is not personal with him," replies Azradi, smiling wanly. "He gets rather enthusiastic about whatever is his latest obsession and forgets about everyone. And I had heard things did not go well when he spoke to Farielle. I do not know the details, though. I have been avoiding her until I speak with my brother. All of which is a moot point for the moment."

Eruphel sighs. "She said he said things to her...things I certainly would find offensive, as she did. However, they do not sound like things he would say. I think there must be some misunderstanding. Lord Alphros' callous nature is in his disinterest and neglect, not in unsavory words."

"Yes, you have discerned my brother's nature quite shrewdly," responds Azradi. She pulls her knees up, lowering her skirts first, and encircles them loosely with her arms. "If he said insulting things to her, there was a reason - or, as you said, she misunderstood."

Eruphel sighs, and shakes her head. "After this, he will not want her. She might be deflowered, maimed...dead...even if she seems fine, he will probably want to start the process all over with her, to assure himself that she does not carry a bastard." Her jaw tightens. "I would love to see that man publicly flayed...one thin strip at a time. The market would be empty from people wishing only to escape the sound of his screams. Economic tragedy for the merchants of Umbar, would the punishment of Vain be. Even if we recover her right now, considering how fragile she has been, think you she could be healed?"

"I cannot predict how damaged she will be when, or if, she returns," Azradi says, weighing her words carefully. "But I suspect this is when we will see the true measure of her strength. As for my brother, I am certain he will care whether or not she carries a child, but I do not know if he requires a virgin. If I recall, when he announced his desire for a bride, he said he did not want a married woman unless her husband was killed during her abduction."

"But then again, it is one thing to take a widow to wife, and quite another to have had a prospective virgin bride and live with the knowledge she was spitefully deflowered by violence." Azradi falls silent a moment, her musing gaze shifting to the waters. "I do not know how he could lure a woman treated like that to the marriage bed. I just cannot imagine how it..." She shudders and falls silent.

Eruphel slips her slippers back on and leans forward to pat Azradi's shoulder. "Let us not dwell on dark things which might not need dwelling. Instead, let us focus on what we /do/ know, and what we /can/ do, hmm?" she says, standing and then offering a hand to Lady Farside, to help her rise.

Smiling wanly, Azradi takes Eruphel's hand and rises to her feet. She leans over to retrieve he slippers, though does not put them on yet. "You are right, let us focus on finding her and the men who abducted her."

"Was that lamb I saw served...?" she asks casually, following her friend up the stairs.

...

_The world fractured and Farielle fractured with it. Time lost any meaning; days, nights, they were all the same. Farielle huddled on the hard cot that is her bed, her back up against the wall. Something moved beside her, her mother stepped out of the darkness, reaching out a hand and smiling. "My dear," she said, her voice warm. "Come. Why are you sitting here in the dark? Open the drapes." _

_Farielle straightened a little, a smile tugging at her lips. "Mama," she said, putting out her hand to take her mother's, and banging her knuckles against wood. No one was there. Her mother was gone as if she had never been. _

_Only to reappear a moment later, looking up from her sewing, where she sat beneath an apple tree. Pink and white blossoms fell in a gust of wind, adorning her raven-colored hair. "I've told you, never stitch /over/; always under."_

_The earlier appearance and vanishing were forgotten in an instant. Farielle turned towards the end of the bed. "I'm sorry, Mama," she said. "I'll remember. I will. Do you know they want me to marry - "_

_"Eat this," said another voice. It was coming from her mother's figure, but it wasn't her voice. Farielle froze. Cloth and needles turn to a hunk of bread shoved at her insistently. She stared at the hand that held it - it was a man's hand, with rough skin and coarse nails. The arm... she scrambled backwards as fast as she could, her hand pressed to her mouth and her eyes wide. The arm ended in nothing. The disembodied hand followed her across the bed, shoving melting fingers into her face._

_Farielle screamed and her mother cursed and the hand dropped the bread and slapped her. "Be quiet!" _

_Shocked into silence, Farielle watched the hand pick up the bread again and push it towards her. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking, and a different voice said, "Wait. Let me try." Closer to her, it dropped in volume and tone, was someone she remembered. _

_"Farielle," the man said coaxingly. "Come now, what's wrong?" She opened her eyes just a sliver, but there was nothing there except her only ally. Unseen by anyone else, he gave her a tiny frown of warning. She tried to smile, and his smile widened._

_"That's right. Here. Come sit on the chair. I've some food for you." Encouraging, cajoling, sweet-talking, Arthadin got her off the bed and onto the chair. "Good, good. You're a good girl, now here. You'll like this." He crouched beside her and gave her a bit of bread with some kind of meat paste spread across it. "You have to eat," he said, dropping his voice a little. "You need to get your strength back, so you can get to the boat. We can't have you fainting half-way there!"_

_She took the bread - it stayed bread in her fingers - and ate it carefully, one slow bite at a time. The man nodded approvingly, and leaned over to brush his lips on her cheek. She flushed. He was pleased with her. _

_"That's my girl. I knew you could do it. Are you thirsty?" When she nodded, he handed her a cup. She drank, and was only a little surprised when the cup vanished while she was swallowing, but the water it held remained. A faint light grew in front of her, and a tall man was coming towards her. His veil gleamed a dull gold in the lamplight._

_"Lord Alphros?" she said, uncertainly. ""Why are you ... Will you take me back to the Tower, please? I can't find Lady Eruphel, and I need..." She faltered. He wasn't saying anything, only walking towards her, faceless... he was looming over her, bending down, and there was something in her hand, her fingers closed about it. The endless stream of whispers was back, and now she could hear some of the words again. _

_... kill him. stab him. stab him. he hates you. he's going to hurt you. kill him. kill..._

_Someone took her hand and stabbed forward with it, and she saw, to her horror, that what she held was a dagger. Lord Alphros collapsed into a tangle of white robes, and she heard Arthadin's voice, warm and pleased, "You are so brave, so courageous." She felt him kiss her cheek again, his breath warm against her skin. _

_The light faded. Farielle was lying on the cot, under the blanket. She reached out tentatively to touch the bed frame. It felt real. She closed her hand around the wood and it squished into mud. _


	35. Chapter 35

My sister,

Forgive me my shaking hand and lack of eloquence. I am crossing the Bay of Belfalas on board the Black Swan, Sir Imrakhor's ship. It is storming outside. There is green flame running down our black masts and rigging. The Draugrim call it Osse's Wrath. Last we made this journey, we sailed to Caldur, and many a soul regrets the winds that bore us thither. This time we shall go beyond that damnation.

I believe you are alive, and I will search for you unrelenting. But if it should be that my attempts are stopped, I leave this letter in the care of the Draugrim. They will speak to Father and Mother of what may happen. I must confess that I am afraid - of failure, of savage Umbar, of knowing that you might be forever lost, Farielle, and this venture fruitless - so afraid that I would jump into the Sea and swim back home, if I could. But I cling, as no one else has clung, to the hope that you may still be found.

By the grace of the One, none but you shall recognize me as a son of Gondor, for the Draugrim have taught me how to dress and proceed as a Southron, and my skin was dyed dark. Nor shall my tongue give me away, for until I find you I will be mute. I will say only this:

We are going home, Farielle.

...

_Even the faintest light now seemed bright, stabbing at her eyes. People talked to her but weren't there. Voices came from nowhere. Things she touched vanished or changed beneath her fingers. Even her food - bread crawled in her mouth, water tasted of ashes, of dirt, of blood. Farielle had no idea what was real any longer, or what was not. Nor was there any way to tell. She felt like people were watching her all the time, but she couldn't see them. _

_She grew thinner. Men came and went. Sometimes, she thought she was sitting on a chair. Arthadin was there, and then he was not. Home. She fixed that thought in her mind. Home. He had said he would take her home._

_Lord Alphros' veiled face loomed above her, someone moved her hand, stabbed and he was gone. The first time she did it of her own accord, she wept. _

_One night - day? She didn't know. - she felt a little more lucid. As if her thoughts were more her own. "They must be putting drugs in my food," she thought. A long while, a few moments, an eternity later: don't eat._

_When next the men came, black shadows hulking in the darkness of the room, and held the bread out to her, Farielle shook her head and pinched her mouth shut. No. She was vaguely surprised when they did nothing, only looked at each other and shrugged. _

_"Won't eat? /He'll/ have something to say about that..." said one, with soft menace. _

_But the success of her small defiance heartened her, and she ignored him. If she stopped eating, she would know what was real again. And then she would go home. _

...

High above Umbar, the sun has begun its slow descent from the noon vigil, but there are yet seedy corners that evade its gaze. Carefully out of the eye of the bustling markets and streets of the city is an alley like many others, pressed between two ramshackle buildings, neither of which appears able to stand without the other. It is here that rats pass among the rubble without much fear of notice.

A rat of far larger make forms a hulking shadow beneath the broken eaves, his stoney brow furrowed darkly beneath a black headwrap as his boots scuff the dirt in apparent impatience.

Another thug, shorter and wiry, saunters along the alley as if he has nothing to hide, no one to fear... a blink and he isn't there, squirreling into the shadows beside his comrade. "Hey," he says in a low voice. "How's... " He looks around, but sees no one. "... the whiteskin?"

Frozen, silent, not even daring to look at the two men, a small ragged boy presses himself into a hole, partly covered by a fallen board from the burnt-out building. He is hidden, as long as no one takes a step over and looks directly down at him.

"Alive and well," his larger counterpart murmurs darkly in a way that suggests a certain frustration with the fact, perhaps. "Fajzed was supposed to bring by more supplies last night, but the weasel didn't show."

Quieter still, though as gravelly as the dirt beneath boots bigger than the head of the boy who watches unknown to the men. "You got anything with you, or am I going to have to go out again?"

"Ain't right," complains the smaller man. "Nice little prize like that an' th'boss won't let us touch 'er." He kicks moodily at the rubble, sending a stone bouncing into the boy's hiding hole. "Yeah.. here." He pulls out a small packet; hot by the odor - meat wrapped in a pastry.

"She oughta be dead," the first spits with no uncertain degree of disgust, the parcel's paper wrapping protesting as he takes it in an angry fist. "Don't see why we're risking our necks for this. Girl oughta die," he repeats, shifting his back against the wall with the rasp of studded leather on stone.

After a moody pause, the stone-shouldered man continues in a more casual, but no less angered timbre. "This all you brought? Fajzed promised ale, too. The weasel."

Smaller Thug shrugs. "Take it up with Him," he says. "I ain't gonna. I just don' think it's right, him not even letting us have a little fun. D'you think she's white like that all over?" A pause. "Get yer own ale. I drunk mine." He glances up at the sun. "Reckon we oughter be going?"

The large man cackles in spite of his seriousness. "Maybe," is his only musing on the subject, however, before duty returns to mind. "Yeah, let's go," he answers. "I'll go this way." A broad-palmed hammer of a hand roughly indicates the direction that leads off into a brighter alley way just past the boy's vantage.

"Right. I'm off." The wiry man drops a wrapper and steps out of the shadows, going the opposite direction as indicated by the other.

The first guard pushes off from the wall after a moment, then crunching through the rubble as he passes the boy's vantage, not a moment's hesitation to suggest any awareness of his audience.

Not until both men have left, and been gone for a good 10 minutes, does the boy wriggle out of his hidey-hole. He picks up the wrapper, licking it to get any crumbs or meat-juice, then folds it carefully into a pocket. Then he takes off up the road, running for the docks.

...

Citizens of Umbar:

Farside strongly condemns the recent actions taken by this so-called 'Vain' against her ally, Seaward Tower. His attack on a Tower and subsequent murder of its loyal citizens is intolerable even in itself, but to abduct a valuable guest of Seaward goes beyond the pale. This theft insults the customs of Umbarean commerce and ownership which are the foundations of our Great Trade City.

In addition, this particular guest, Lady Farielle of Gondor, is of interest to House anAzulada. Her kidnapping, and especially her ill-treatment, is a personal insult to the House's most prominent scions, Lord Alphros and Lady Azradi.

Farside has pledged a number of her soldiers to assist Lady Eruphel's search for the missing woman. Farside is also offering a reward of gold for any information leading to Vain or his band of men, impudently named 'The Blood'. Whether it involves the abduction or not, all information should be presented to Corsair Captain YILDIRIM of Farside Tower.

-Azradi anAzulada, Lady Farside.

...

_Things still moved in the dark, still hissed and whispered at her, but not so many. Farielle felt pleased. It would work. Soon, she would see only what was there. She wondered where Arthadin was. He had said she would go home. She pictured the ship, the waves splashing against its prow in the sunlight. The green curve of the hill above her home. Her mother and father running out to greet her. She would count the kittens, and ride Barahun's latest son - but Barahun was dead, wasn't he? That had been a long time ago, when she was small._

_The door opened, and she started, her eyes flying to the faint light. Four men came in, in silence. One carried a shuttered lantern that he set on the table. The few glimmers of light that showed through the cracks brightened the room and Farielle saw the man who stood in the middle, his arms crossed, staring at her. He wore a white mask with red markings on it, like blood. Her breath came faster, her eyes fixed on the mask. _

_The guard sounded obsequious as he gave a kind of half-bow to his leader. "She won't eat," he said. "We ain't done nothin'. Just come, like you said."_

_The masked man nodded, watching Farielle. His eyes glittered in the mask holes. Abruptly, he turned his head towards one of the other men. "Strip her."_

_The words didn't sink in until Farielle was dragged off the bed, and felt a rough hand at the neck of her dress. Then she blanched. No! Not...! She looked around frantically, seeing only the vicious, hungry grins of the men around. Already, her shoulders were bare. She struggled, trying to reach up to stop him, but another man forced her hands down. _

_"Please!" she blurted out, looking back at Vain. "Please don't... please. I - I'll eat."_

_Vain said nothing. "Please," she begged again. She could feel the air, cold against her skin. Odd it should be cold, she had always been so hot here. _

_"Guess she is white all over," someone said coarsely, fiddling with the lantern so that a beam of light shot out. Someone else laughed. Farielle shut her eyes, shaking and feeling tears force themselves out from under her eyelids. _

_"Enough." It was Vain's voice, unnatural, inhuman. The men holding her stopped, waiting. "If you refuse to obey me again," Vain went on, "I won't stop them. Do you understand me?"_

_Hopelessly, Farielle nodded. _

_He must have made some signal, for her arms were dropped and she heard them leaving. Heard the door shut. Against her eyelids, it was dark again. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. One man was still there, watching her, grinning. Farielle clutched her dress to herself and scuttled back to the bed, where she huddled in the corner, wrapping the blanket about her. Her fingers were shaking so she could barely do the buttons up again._

_When the guard brought her bread, she shrank away from him, but took it. Still trembling, she forced herself to swallow, then buried her head in her arms and wept._


	36. Chapter 36

Farside Tower begins its slow descent into sleep, as dusk takes over the sky and lamps are lit along the walls and walkways. The air is cool and dry, winter's hand reaching far. The grounds are not yet empty, most heading into the tower for their meals and then for sleep. A few mingle with the guards and others practice along the area near the barracks. Yidirim is of this latter group.

Clad in a heavy shirt of chain, he practices with a dulled blade with an older man; Yildirim seems displeased with the situation.

A guard from the gate comes, a small ragged boy following him and looking around in fascination. The guard stops by the practice area, dropping a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder to keep him away from the blades, and waits.

Yildirim midswing raises a hand for his partner to halt, his breath heavy and ragged. He squats, bending over in exhaustion, and then he eyes, first the feet, of the boy and guard. Quizzically, he asks, "Is that one mine?"

A swift grin from the guard. "Likely you'd know better than me... He said he has some information," he replies. He gives the boy a small, encouraging shake. "Go on then, the Captain's who you're wanting to talk to."

A nod and the Captain stands. He gives his sparring partner a silent dismissal and moves to the boy. "Hello lad. Do you drink?" he asks, offering his arm in greeting.

"Course," the lad answers a bit scornfully. Who doesn't? He looks up at the guard then back at Yildirim, a little suspiciously. "Heard a feller sayin' as you'd pay a body as heard anything 'bout that bone woman?"

"I'll handle him," Yildirim says the guard. He looks to the boy, "I may be." He nods towards the barracks, "Let's talk it over a pint. What's your name?"

The guard nods and returns to the gate. The boy hesitates, then follows Yildirim. "Jarad," he says after a minute. "What sort of captain? You got a boat?"

"That I do, Jarad," he says, leading the boy into the barracks. There he finds the mess and pours two glasses from the barrels of ale there offering a mug and a table to sit at to the boy. "If you like boats, perhaps we can work out a trip in your payment, which I think brings us to business." His manner hardens overly so, a caractiture of adults getting ready to negotiate, "So let us speak then of business. What do you have for me?"

"Girl tol' me I could grow up t'be a corsair," Jarad brags, though there is an undercurrent of doubt in his voice. Eagerness at the offer of a ride vies with disappointment, but then he shrugs and takes a long swallow of his ale, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I heard some men talkin'," he says, looking around cautiously. "'Bout a whiteskin woman? Said..." He squeezes his eyes shut with the effort of remembering, and his voice takes on a sing-song timbre. "She oughta be dead. Don't know why we're risking our necks. An', 'Fajzed was s'posed t'bring supplies, but the weasel didn't show.'"

"Fajzed you say?" Yildirim says suspiciously, "Did you see their faces? Where did you hear them talking?" He leans back in his lean, casually, sipping from his mug, "Promise of coin brings a lot of tales."

Jarad looks offended. "I ain't lyin!" He glares at the man. Sullenly, he says, "Heard 'em down by that ol' burnt up place, th'one y'can't go in cause th'floor's all holes an' the roof's fell in." A pause to drink some more of the ale, and reluctantly, the boy admits, "I never seen 'em up close. Only heard 'em talking. I hid b'hind some stuff. Tried t'follow when they left, but they went differnt ways, an' I lost 'em."

"No, I do not think you are. Do you know any men in that section of the city named Fajzed, Jarad?"

The boy shakes his head. "Ain't never heard of nobody called that. Not round where I live."

Yildirim considers. He says naught for a time, sipping from his drink. Till finally, "I think there is some worth to your words and you are wise to bring this information to me. But you have come here for reward. What reward do you seek?"

Jarad wavers. "You said... I could ride on a boat?" he asks at last.

"A boat trip is fair payment. Around the bay then." Yildirim finishes his own mug, setting it upon the table, "You gave me a name and a location. Is the boat ride enough to compensate you for your information? Are you satisfied?"

Hope flashes across the small grubby face. "You pay me, too?" he asks, adding fairly, "'Cept they only stopped t'talk there."

"I can pay you. What price do you think is fair?"

"Silver penny?" Halfway through, Jarad turns the question in his voice into a statement, obviously trying to sound like someone he has heard bargaining.

"A silver penny!" Yildirim shouts. His lips twist in consternation, his hand rubbing at his chin. Again for a long time he stares at the child.

"You are a brash negotiator, Jarad. I offer a counter-offer. A penny now and ten copper a month and you work for me now. You hear something good, you come to me. You see something off, you come to me. And you don't share what you hear or see, or speak of our deal with anyone. That and the boat ride."

Jarad waits, putting a frown on his face as if thinking hard. Clearly, he has seen someone do this also. Then he spits in his palm and holds it out to seal the bargain. "Done," he says solemnly. A moment later, "What sort of 'good' m'I sposed t'tell you?"

Farside's Captain shakes the boy's hand, not flinching at the spittle. "A good deal. As to what you are looking for, you know the name Vain?"

"Heard it," Jarad says cautiously. "Y'don' mess with him. Not if y'want t'stay alive."

"When you hear it again, listen and don't mess with them. Bring me news of him. Vain, this Fajzed and the paleskin woman. Her name is Farielle. Those are the names that'll put food in your gullet and drink in hand. Fair enough?"

The boy nods. "Tell you f'I hear anything 'bout Vain or Fajzed or Fa-Farel. What you want her for?" he asks curiously.

"Those copper that will soon line your pockets don't grow on trees, Jarad. I get paid just as you and for now, I get paid for finding those three people. Make sense?"

Another nod. Jarad drains his mug, and stands up. "When do I get t'go on th'boat?" he asks.

"Noon tomorrow. Say your name to the guard, he'll have someone take you to the docks." Yildirim stands as well, "Good doing business with you, Jarad. I hope to speak to you again soon."

The boy grins widely. "I'll listen ever'where!" he vows, turning to dash out of the building.

...

_Carefully, slowly, with all the strength that she had left, Farielle began to picture the stars. She ignored every sound, refused to pay attention to anything she saw. The stars. They glittered high and brilliant. When she had them there, she imagined herself rising, floating up towards them. Beneath her was the sea, and west - west was the drowned land of Numenor, and beyond, the isle of the elves. _

_Something banged, shattering her vision, and painstakingly, she began again. Deeper. She would have to go deeper. Try harder. She could do it - she /must/ do it. The stars. The ocean. She floated across it, westward, ever westward. In the distance, above the horizon, a green land swam into view. Farielle fixed her concentration on that spot. She thought she could hear singing. _

It's always dark in this room, unless a lamp is lit; there are no windows. There is a cot along one wall, Farielle is lying on it with a thin blanket over her and staring blankly into the darkness. It has been a while since she ate last, but things still move in the shadows - every now and then, her gaze goes to something that isn't there. Then she looks away, forcing herself to ignore them. To concentrate. Other than that small movement of her eyes, and the slight lifting of the blanket as she breathes, she is still and silent.

A metallic rattle breaks the quiet, then the groan of wooden hinges protesting movement in its wake. Heavy footsteps then herald a dark, stony-featured man in weathered clothing and a black headwrap, little more than a dust-littered shaft of amber light accompanying him to testify to some daytime hour before the door is closed again. He crosses to Farielle without much regard beyond a few grunting words.

"You'll be sitting up now, you will," comes his gravelly voice above the scrape of a wooden stool against the floor. Using his feet, he shoves it over beside Farielle's cot before crossing the room again. The dull sound of fumbled metal follows in the dim.

The girl is motionless, not reacting as the door opens and shuts again, nor to the rough-voiced order. But something - perhaps the sound of metal - filters down into her awareness, and she turns her head. "I don't want... " The words are thin, whispered, and they trail off unfinished.

There is a passing quiet, in which nothing is to be heard from the guard but the rasp of his breath against the far wall - or as far as can be ventured from the girl's makeshift bed. Not long after, a dim, oily light springs to life, casting unsteady shadows around a broken room of meager furniture.

"Makes no difference to me what you want," the man grumbles. "Sit up girl, or you'll choke on your food." A half-hearted kick rattles her cot, and a tin cup of clear liquid is placed unceremoniously next to a plate of bread and dried fruit on the stool.

There is still a pause before Farielle stirs, then pushes herself cautiously upright. She sways a little, and clutches the edge of the cot - but there is a curious tentativeness; as if she isn't certain the wood will remain wood beneath her grasp - or even remain there, at all. Then, as if overtaken by a sudden and terrible thirst, she takes the cup and drains it. "Could - I have more. Please?" Words, too, come out oddly - as if she listens to each one and wonders, did I really say it?

It is no recognizable word he offers, but the man reaches for the skin at his belt and pours more water for her nonetheless - half as much as before. "There'll be more when you've eaten, and no sooner," he growls in a voice that does not invite a challenge. "Eat."

Farielle drains this second cup as well, setting it down and looking at the bread and fruit. For a long moment, she doesn't move, then with a little defeated sag of her shoulders, she reaches for the fruit. It is with still more reluctance that she takes the bread when the fruit is done; holding it in her hand and not eating.

Though the guard's movements are difficult to discern in the dim and yellowing light, it does chance upon a shadowed frown on his craggy features. "You don't want him to come again," he grunts impatiently, and rather vaguely, before steps and the muted sound of dull metal repeat like metal tools jostling in a leather satchel. "You'll wish you'd eaten, then."

Always this perpetual darkness, and the raging thirst. Farielle stares at the bread a while longer, then slowly, she breaks a piece off and eats it. Then another. At last, it is gone, and she holds out the cup, mutely.

The rock-hewn man sniffs at this, a sneer in his voice. "I thought so. That's a smart girl." Liquid sloshes in his waterskin as he thrusts an arm out to refill her cup once more, careless of a splash that misses its mark.

This done, he pushes the stool back to the corner, there to cut a mountainous silhouette as he sits. Now comes the hollow, gritty ring of steel upon a whetstone.

Farielle drinks the water, but doesn't ask for more. Perhaps she knows he wouldn't give her any. She huddles onto the bed, putting her back against the wall, and clutching the blanket around her knees. The irritating whine of the sharpening knife keeps going, over and over and over. Something moves in the corner. The girl shuts her eyes desperately, but it won't help. It hasn't any time before.

Smiling cruelly in the darkness, the guard watches Farielle even as the moments grow long. The oily lamplight is ominous in his eyes as he continues his idle sharpening.

_The stars. The isle. She'd heard them singing once; surely she could find them again... _

...

Zadan Ulbar is a grand mansion of Umbarean style: five stories and three wings of grand marble halls, tall windows, and pillared private chambers. Formerly the Karkhan Palace, the home of Emperor Ajnabi, it has now be taken over by the self-proclaimed King of Gondor, Alphros anAzulada, who has restyled it to his taste. Ancient tapestries and statues depicting the bygone days of Numenor, as well as more recent heroics from across Haradwaith, are particularly prevalent.

The palace is guarded by a cadre of Umbarean warriors and attended to by a host of servants. It serves as an embassy as well as a residence; merchants and dignitaries are frequently present, doing business with the King's representatives.

Winter's grasp is not a harsh one in Umbar - not compared to the lands of the North - though its touch is more readily felt here beyond the high walls of Umbar, where the deep desert winds can more freely blow up from the shadows of the Haradwaith in the east. Wide windows receive their brisk tendrils; silk curtains flutter with faint reticence, and candle flames dance uncertainly.

These wide windows are the hundred eyes of Zadan Ulbar, formerly the mansion of Emperor Ajnabi, now claimed by the one who deposed him. And though the new master of this place may be frequently absent, today he walks the halls, veiled yet unaccompanied.

The temperate winters are cool enough for those used to warmer climes - especially the climes far south of Umbar that bred the tall woman who visits these halls (as well as its Master). Azradi's silken gown is covered with a light woolen wrap - a make of which only a few would recognize as Gondorian. A servant clad in the livery of this mansion escorts her to where her brother wanders. He does not announce her, there is no need. "Alphros!" Lady Farside calls, hastening to meet him. She smiles broadly, radiating a genuine joy. "We are too consumed with our duties, you and I, how long has it been? Since Caldur, I am sure."

As if awaking from a long sleep, or dream, Alphros gazes at the newcomer... and then at great length smiles. "Ahhh, Azradi, greetings." He reaches for a hand in a brotherly greeting. "Duties, hopes, ambitions; yes, they are consuming are they not. What is it that brings you here, then, away from your many distractions?"

Giving her hand, Azradi moves in closer for a moment and kisses his veiled cheek - a sisterly peck and then she is away. Her broad smile twists wryly. "Your potential bride brings me. I have wanted to talk to you about her for weeks now. And now her tale has taken a darker turn, so it seems to me a conversation is even more neccesarry."

"Yes," Alphros frowns. "When first I had sent my proclamation that I sought a Queen, I did not think that it would become such a... distracting matter." He looks pointedly at Azradi. "Have you something to add other than what is heard on the streets and in taverns? Alas, that this Vain character... does not know the contents of the reply that I had penned to Lady Eruphel in regards to the Gondorian Lady. Alas for her too. I have withheld sending it as I am not sure how it might influence her fate."

"You heard my decree?" Azradi says, glancing to her brother. She pulls her woolen wrap closer. "Since I did not know your intentions, I have had to assume she is still of interest to our family and therefore her abduction an insult to the anAzualda. Eruphel and I have conferred over the matter. Seaward will concentrate on searching for her, while I will learn as much as I can about this Vain and his men: who they are, where they can be found. They must be destroyed. His actions are an insult to Seaward and all other Towers. I've set Yildirim to the task, and lent him the darkest men under my command. Now you must tell me if I was right or wrong to claim insult for the family. What did you pen to Eruphel? What do, or did, you intend for the girl?"

"I regret that the matter has become public," Alphros answers, a hint of displeasure entering his voice, "Though I suppose such is inevitable when a Tower Lord such as Lady Eruphel was so intimately involved. But I did not think all Umbar wished to peer into my marriage bed. Still, you should know that I had written to Lady Eruphel stating that while Lady Farielle fulfilled all that I wished of in a bride... lineage, health, and prospect... It was an ailment of the spirit that concerned me, a certain... fire. Of course such a flame is essential in a Queen, but I cannot afford to be wedded and then burnt. Ironic," his lips twist into a bitter smile, "Given that my claim to Kingship, aye our very family, is borne of one such unhappy and broken union."

The veiled King-Claimant waves a hand. "I am grateful for your efforts... I have agents and coin enough, but not your resources. What I had penned to Lady Eruphel was this: I am uncertain of Lady Farielle's suitability, and though I am not yet willing to commit, neither am I willing to completely cast her aside as a bride. Of course the thought crossed my mind that she could be taken as a Royal Consort, though truthfully I have no need nor desire for one, and such might not only lessen her legitimacy as a Queen, but also provoke her to stab me in my sleep one night." If he jests, he laughs not. "So I had proposed that Lady Eruphel take her as a lady-in-waiting, so that her virtue might be retained and her foreign manners schooled by time in Umbar, ere her future is cast in stone or iron."

Silence. Both during Alphros' explanation and for a few moments afterward. Azradi clears her throat delicately. Her expression is one of amusement when she finally speaks. "Forgive me, brother. I must peer into your marriage bed. Your wife, whoever she may be, will be an anAzualda and my sister. For this I, have taken an interest in this matter and in the girl herself. But there is another reason I must concern myself with your marriage bed."

Every time we go into battle, especially together, we risk ending the direct anAzulada line. We must marry and have heirs. I feel this most urgently. However, I have no prospects and if you are intent on marrying for advantage rather than love...then I urge you to consider this woman more carefully - else reject her and find another." Indeed, the anxiety (and a strange longing) in Azradi's heart is quite evident in her features. "Perhaps you should take her as a consort after all. Though, if rumors are correct, she has refused to marry you...did you intend to marry her by force? For that matter, will you care if she recovered from this Vain but deflowered?"

"Sister," Alphros says with a hint of a smile, summoning as much reassurance as his otherwise distracted manner might afford. "If you worry so much for an anAzulada heir, then take a consort yourself as did Lady Eruphel and bear him children. This is your responsibility now... You know that I have foresworn my inheritance. Besides, unlike the claim to Gondor, we have relatives enough that should we fall without issue, there are other branches of family for which to pillage for an heir. I shall go on living and seeking, not living beneath the terror of quaint family expectations." He throws up his hands in mock dramatic disgust. "This Gondorian shrew has already distracted me enough for my immediate goals! Alas that I could not abandon her to her fate... She is still a nobleborn woman, and must be found. Before we speak more of that, I have something else to tell you... Something that these matters have reminded me of."

Reddening when he suggests /she/ marry, Azradi looks away. "If that is what it would take to continue the line, I will take an heir from among our cousins." She returns her regard to Alphros, seeking his eyes through the veil. "But you are my brother. You can deny a legal right but you cannot deny your blood, our blood. Should I die without issue, one of your children should succeed me." Her anxiety is not relieved one bit. "We will speak more on this. But first tell me what you wish."

_Together they speak of this matter and that, but no more is said of the Lady Farielle. _


	37. Chapter 37

(Public gossip)

MALIK, a well known champion of that arena has come forth to make public a challenge to Vain, the reported abductor of Farielle from Seaward Tower. Malik has called out the infamous fellow, challenging him to a duel of arms before the eyes of the Square, with the victor to claim possession of the hapless Gondorian captive!

One wonders what both Seaward and Farside will make of this, when none of their brave cadre of Corsairs have stepped forth to make so bold a challenge as this associate of Desert Tower. Either way, it is said that Malik has Lojrul's backing in this message to Vain - will the notorious assassin take up the challenge?

...

(Sent from Vain to Lojrul)

The letter is plain, and the seal black showing the outline of a blood drop.

Once opened the letter is straight forward.

Sending a dog after me then? The Man Malik is a fool to think I'll answer such a summons. That idiot aside, I have something you may find useful, if the whispers of your vying for lordship are true.

The Gondorian woman.

I'll be releasing her into the desert, once I am finished with her, and upon such time you, LORD Lojrul, will have opportunity to relieve her of the men 'escorting her' and return her to Umbar to your glory and the praise of the lords of Umbar.

Of course I expect compensation for my part in your honor.

V."

...

(In the Hidden Room)

The day has turned and gone. By private, secret ways, the two men who stand guard this night are come to the small, windowless room. A single lamp burns, and the smaller of the two sits on a chair, leaning back against the wall. On the cot across the room, a girl lies in restless slumber, and he watches her, brooding.

The larger of the men sits across the room, hunched upon a stool far to small for his broad-shouldered frame. He busies himself by whetting a small knife against a well-worn stone with a relentless whine of steel, with which his breathing has long since fallen in time.

Until he rises with a start, with all the tension of a cobra striking out, and paces toward the door identified by a thin thread of light that outlines it. "Where's the relief? I've been on watch going on three days," he hisses in frustration without much apparent care for the girl's sleep.

The other man only shrugs, his eyes fixed on Farielle. She moves her head uneasily, tossing out an arm, and crying out, before sinking again into a heavier sleep. "You don't want to watch no more, you can always just go, y'know," he says, without looking away. "I'll stay an' 'watch' her."

More seriously, "Should be soon. Reckon's time for her to eat a bit again."

The large man, Massai, sniffs derisively as he slides a wooden plank roughly away from a small peephole in the door. There is nothing to see but starlight, though even that seems brighter in a room so dark. "Boss says it's safer in here off the streets. Thinks one of us is gonna get caught." A moment's consideration passes, and he closes the slat again. "But I swear, if this goes on much longer..." His gruff voice trails off into some silent threat.

"What do we got for her?" he asks though, the time remembered. "There's not much of the drug left."

"Don' think she needs much. Look." He nods towards the bed. "She's still seein' stuff. He said Fyal's bringin' her some fancy stuff again.."

"Why's he gotta go wasting all that food?" Massai grumbles, perpetually impatient and discontented. "She hardly eats none of it if we don't make her. We got some bread left. Maybe some broth. Don't see how that won't do." Again he paces across the room, and the fumbling sound of tin follows. "Wake her up, will you?"

A grin is his answer and the smaller man stands up, crossing to the cot, bending over the girl and shaking her. "Wake up, pretty," he croons. "Time for breakfast."

Farielle starts at his touch, her eyes - the pupils widely dilated - staring into the face so close to hers. Instinctively, she shrinks away. "Now, that ain't nice," the man says, his voice heavy with mock disappointment. "Here we is, bringing you something t'eat and you go and act like that." He shakes his head sadly, and pulls the blanket off the bed, staring openly at her slender figure.

"Just go, he says!" the large guard mutters to no one, echoing some of his associate's earlier words. "You'd watch her, alright. I ain't letting that be put on me." With this, he thrusts a plate of rather stale bread into the smaller man's view of the girl. "Broth's coming. But like you said, looks like she don't need much." Dark eyes narrow on Farielle in a far different manner before he turns back to the table, turning the key on the oil lamp to allow a little more light.

Yodral takes the plate without looking at it and holds it out to the girl. "There now, aren't you hungry? Have a bit to eat."

Farielle has scooted away from him, up against the wall. Her eyes drop to the plate and she shakes her head a little, and swallows. "Thirsty," she whispers. She flinches at nothing, and fixes her eyes on the plate, refusing to look around.

There is a languid sloshing of liquid and a strange sound like glass, then Massai prowls back toward Farielle with a tin cup dwarfed in his hand. "Course you are," he sneers, putting the cup on a small stool beside the girl's cot. "But you want more than this, you got to get something in your stomach first." A few oily droplets float atop a weak broth that doesn't appear hot enough to steam.

The cup appears in the corner of her vision, and Farielle looks towards it, mistrustfully. But impelled by thirst, she edges around the other man - who doesn't move, making her reach past him to get the broth - and drinks it.

"Now the bread." Yodral pushes the plate at her, until she takes the stale bread and breaks a piece off. "Eat," he growls as she hesitates.

Massai watches her drink with mistrust in his own eyes as well, cutting a tall and imposing shadow behind Yodral. "Don't folk eat bread in your puny city?" he adds with more ire than jest. Snatching the cup back from her bedside, the man takes a waterskin in his other hand, waiting with a pointed stare for Farielle to finish.

The girl's hand trembles and she looks at the two men hopelessly, then back down at the bread. Slowly, piece by piece, she eats it; though it seems she nearly chokes to swallow.

With an impatient sigh, Massai refills the tin cup with water this time, though with a shimmer of yellow oil yet on its surface. "Weren't so hard," he grumbles to himself, reclaiming his seat along the wall with heavy boots kicked up on the table's edge.

Farielle is so thirsty. Without thought, she takes the cup, draining it, and then holding it as if it might refill itself. "More?" she asks, the whisper rusty and disused. She has spoken hardly at all the last three weeks; it is hard to remember how.

...

(Landfall in Harad)

_Lominzil stood at the prow of the ship, watching. They had come for him at night, rousting him out of an uneasy sleep, and giving him only time to pick up his small bag of provisions._

_It was still dark out, though the eastern sky was greying towards dawn, and the ship, painted black, and with black sails, was all but invisible. But ahead of him, the squire could see a vague shape that must be land. Silently, the men furled the sails, and slid the anchor out. Someone touched his arm and he turned to see a small boat being readied. _

_As they ran the boat against the shore, Lominzil leaped out. _

_"We'll be here," one of the Draugrim said softly. "When you return, wait. We will tell the men to look for you, and to shelter you if you make it this far." _

_Lominzil couldn't tell by his voice if he expected him to make it this far or not. He rather thought not. But he nodded, and whispered, "Thank you, sir," and turned away. He didn't watch the Black Swan depart._

_Behind a sand-dune, he stripped and buried his clothes; checked and hid his supply of walnut juice to dye his skin. A pair of sandals and a dirty, patched robe - it was a simple man of the desert who walked south, not a Squire of the Order of the Swan._

_..._

(Main Docks of Umbar)

The docks continue, but here too, the docks remain mostly empty, as most of the merchant ships and private yachts have fled the city in search for food and safety. From here you see that the wall surrounding the bay has two entrances that allow ships in-one under the causeway to the northwest and another to the north on the other side of the island/military complex. A high, arched causeway leads northward to the island in the bay.

The sun has set. The tide is in, and ships bob gently at their moorings, casting tall shadows on the glassy sea. Lights line the dockway, but only a few sailors coming to or fro from their vessels are here. That, and a raggedy girl with a staff, who twirls a ribbon (it is too dark to see the color) in her hand.

A boy, still more ragged, darts out onto the docks, looking around him. Then he sees the girl and prances up to her. "Hey," he says, by way of greeting. "You never come."

Nisrin is seated on a fishy-smelling barrel; she takes out a roll of bread with oily sardines sandwiched within, breaks it in two and gives one to the boy. "Sorry," she mumbles ruefully. "I thought I lost you ... and now other people might know! What would they do if they found a girl poking about in those buildings?"

Jarad takes the bread and crams a bite into his mouth. Indistinctly, he says, "Dunno. Run fash!" Swallowing audibly, he gives the girl a conspiratorial grin. "I din't tell 'em ever'thing," he assures her. "An' did you see? He gimme a whole penny!" This, he says much more quietly. He is not such a fool as to brag of wealth where anyone might hear! Regretfully, he tells Nisrin, "I never saw her though, that woman. Just heard some fellers talkin' bout her. You want t'know that, too?"

"Yes," says the girl incredulously. "Anything about her would be nice. But if you have told other people already ..." She sounds hurt. "Tell me, please."

"Not ever'thing," he says hurriedly. "An' you din't say don't tell no one f'I heard anything, only f'I seen her. An' I din't." Having thus squared his conscience, he proceeds to regale her with the full tale - still spoken quietly and with an eye to possible eavesdroppers.

"I saw these fellers, see? So I hid. Din't want 'em t'see me. Only they stopped almost standin' right on top! I'm tellin' you, I was some scared! But I could hear 'em, easy." He pauses to finish his bread and fish. "One of 'em says, 'how's the whiteskin?' An' th'other says, "She's fine. You got anything to eat?" An' the first one says, yeah, and give 'im some of them hot rolls with meat in. An' then he said as how he din't like riskin' his neck, and she ought t'be dead, an' th'other says he din't think it was fair the boss wouldn' let 'em have no fun, an' did he think she were white all over like that?"

"An' then they laughed some, an' said was time they were gettin' on, an' left. I - I was gonna try an' follow 'em, but..." The boy shifts uneasily. "Well, they went differnt ways, so I couldn't've done both, an'... I din't want t'get too close. So I don' know where they went."

The girl takes a bite of the sardine sandwich, crossing her knees. "This was in that alley in Sangahyando? Was it many days ago?"

Jarad nods, looking up at her hopefully. "That what you want t'know? I come an' put up th'ribbon soon's I could, after."

"Yes," she replies, her thoughts unsure. "What about when I saw you last? I tried to find you, but Lord Khaan had his men take you by the arm." She tilts her head suspiciously, teasing. "You were not trying to pick his pocket?"

"Not me! I ain't so dumb as that!" Jarad avows. "They was askin' same as you. Did anybody see that woman."

"Well, if it is Khaan," says Nisrin slowly, "I suppose that is all right. We would not want the whole of Umbar in search for my friend! She is easily frightened, and many would use her for their own means."

"Oh." Jarad considers this. "What happened to 'er anyways? She run away an' get lost or something?"

"Something like that," says the girl, shrugging. "Have you had friends who were taken away and never seen again? That is what happened to her, except I wish to find her first."

A shadow crosses the boy's face. "Oh," he says again, more quietly still. Wistfully, "You want t'bring her back then? Wish... wish't I coulda done that..."

Nisrin shakes her head. "See how easily they caught you! These are dangerous men. If you should face any of those men you heard, run! Think of your own life; you are fast and yet young."

Jarad nods, his young face still wistful. "M'brother," he says. "Woke up one day an' he was gone. I wisht I was big enough t'find 'im, like you lookin' for your friend." Then the irrepressibly cheeky grin crosses his face again. "I hide real good, an' run fast too!"

Nisrin smiles and reaches to put a hand on the child's shoulder. "One day I woke up and I found a brother," she tells him. "Although he is quite frightening."

Her hood turns to the moored vessels. "Have you been watching the ships?"

The boy nods again. "Went..." he starts to say, then stops uncertainly. "Y'think I could be a corsair, really? When I'm big?"

Nisrin considers him for a moment. "Yes, I think you can," she says encouragingly. "What is your name?"

"Jarad. I'm nearly 9." The boy stretches, to make himself look taller. And thus older.

"Very well," says the girl, smiling earnestly, "I shall tell all the Captains I know that Jarad is swift as a sea-swallow, keen as an owl, and fell as a hawk." After a moment, she adds, "After some decent feeding."

The boy squirms with embarrassed pleasure, and bounces up. "Hope you find her," he says earnestly.

"Thank you," the girl says absently, reaching out to ruffle his hair. She then rises and limps towards the war docks.


	38. Chapter 38

_Farielle floated in darkness. A little ways away, not far she knew, was the long green island where elves sang, but she couldn't find it. She ran through the blackness, huge heads painted red and white chasing her, tearing off mask after mask; veil after veil as they came. The masks and veils spun in the air, barring the way. Farielle edged closer to them, and they turned into knives, all flashing in some hideous light, stabbing her. Stabbing Lord Alphros. _

_Sometimes, she remembered that it was the drugs. It was only a dream. Sometimes, she thought she heard people speaking; thought she stood or walked. But mostly, she ran, trying to escape the night and find her way home. Hadn't someone said they would take her home? _

(Rath Anwarmen, Near Umbar)

Perhaps a mile to the northwest lies the great fortress city of the Corsairs, Umbar. Numerous evenly spaced towers set into the wall look out over the the countryside. From here, the tiny silhouettes of guards atop the great outer wall can just barely be discerned. The outer walls are huge, and a huge ditch lined with palisades surrounds them.

As the sun falls, a small group of men comes south from the city; two of them are pulling a cart. Once around a small rise, so that they are hidden from anyone watching from the walls (no matter if they couldn't be seen clearly from this distance), they stop and wait. It is not long until dusk, and two men start to unpack the contents... Eventually, a board is pried up, and a person, entirely covered by a robe and hood, is half-helped, half-pulled out of the cramped hiding place.

It is not long before another group of men draw near, arriving from the east over the wide dunes. This party seems well-used to treading the sand, and a pair of horses are brought in tow, presumably for ferrying baggage as not a man among them rides upon their backs as yet. A dozen or so, dressed in the fashion of the desert, they stop a good distance from the unpacking party, and two of their number stride forth boldly.

Thus does Lojrul, Steward Regent of Desert Tower, of the savage folk of the Sand, approach these visitors from the city; an armed fellow at his side. "So, then," says he, "who of you is the mysterious Vain?"

They look at each other and shrug. "He ain't here," says one, and grins. Behind, one man roughly steadies Farielle while she gains balance from muscles stiff and cramped from the ride. Her hooded head turns blindly towards the voices, then droops.

"Ahhh," replies Lojrul, his eyes fixing upon the speaking man and not yet darting to the hooded woman of Gondor. "Such courage by your fearless leader, eh? Thus I know I am dealing with a true lord, and not some thief of the night..." As the sarcasm drips from his tongue, Lojrul shrugs then, and adds: "Very well. You are to release this woman into my protection, I understand?"

The men only smirk at Lojrul's words, but the one who seems to be the spokesman nods, albeit reluctantly.

Striding forward then, Lojrul ignores the men, seeking the figure of Farielle, ere he arrives before her. He reaches out and parts the hood – it is indeed the right woman. "It is I, pale lady: Lojrul. Do you remember me?"

Farielle's head turns again at the sound of his voice, then stops and drifts back to staring straight in front of her. She has always been slender, but beneath the hood, her face is thin - almost gaunt now - with great shadowed hollows around her eyes. One of the men keeps a hold of her upper arm - to keep her from trying to run? To hold her up?

Studying the girl's features for a long moment, Lojrul then nods and curls a lip as he looks to the captors. "Starving her, eh? The Lady will not be pleased when she sees what has become of her prize. Come, Farielle," says he then, reaching for her wrist, even as his companion steps forward with the seeming intention of taking the place of her crutch.

"We fed her!" protests one of the men. "She never ate nothin', less we nigh shoved it down 'er! It's..." Another digs an elbow into his ribs and he shuts up abruptly.

More hands take hold of the girl, her wrist, her arm again, but she hardly seems to notice. She seems to be trying to stare at one nonexistent point in the air; her eyes make little sliding darts to this side and that, only occasionally fixing on an actual object, but always return to the same location - straight ahead. Beneath his hand, Lojrul might feel a fine, faint tremor.

Indeed the Desert man seems to take notice, for he squeezes her wrist firmly but not unkindly, and leads her forward. "Do not worry, paleskin lady. I am here to aid you. Soon you shall know cool air and shade once more, not to mention water and bread..."

A tiny frown wrinkles Farielle's forehead, and she looks down at her wrist. Interesting. There is a hand there, where she has felt it... her gaze runs up Lojrul's arm and end on his face, and she stares at him for a few minutes as he leads her away from the other men - then she looks away again. A moment later, she flinches from nothing, throwing her arm up - or trying to; it is held by the other man. And again, with an effort of will, she subdues herself and returns to staring fixedly ahead of herself.

The tribesmen waiting to the side for Lojrul's return peer and squint at the woman's pale skin, caught at whiles as she is directed towards them, and many a glance is sent among them with interest. But still they say naught, not stirring from where they stand, even as the Steward Regent guides Farielle into their midst.

Strong hands lift the girl up, and place her atop one of the horses. Lojrul himself, meanwhile, turns back to the men, and his smile turns wolfish; a feral gleam in his jet gaze.

"Now," says he, "what to do with you fellows..."

Farielle doesn't struggle. Indeed, it seems all her strength is going into /not/ reacting. But when she finds herself sitting on a horse, she seems to brighten a little; become a little more a part of the world around her - for a tiny almost-smile moves her lips, and after a moment of hesitation, she reaches to touch the horse's neck. But still, her motions are tentative and uncertain - like she isn't sure the animal will still be there by the time her hand reaches its skin.

A few snarls rise up at Lojrul's words from the carde of captors, and one of them steps forward brandishing his sword. "The agreement was to hand over the tark, and then all would be done. Vain would be glad to hear of this going without a hitch, wouldn't you say?"

"I care nothing for what Vain wishes," growls Lojrul to this, and as one the men of his party fan out, outnumbering the others by two-to-one. More swords are drawn, and the Desert worthy sneers across the road to the captors. "One of you may live to take my message to him, and it is this: do not meddle in the affairs of the Eye's true servants; they shall not thank you nor spare you in turn. Vain's presumption has earned him a death by my blade, unless he can find me worthy enough payment to avoid it."

As the men of his group step forward, Lojrul sneers anew. "Now... choose which among you will be the lucky fellow to live..."

Later, the men and the two horses they lead, along with Farielle, move away, seeking the sanctity of Umbar once more. Behind them, dead on the bloody sand, are all the men who brought her out of the City – save one.

...

Morning breaks over the Corsair City, a chill wind reminding the folk of Umbar that winter is yet upon their coasts. The desert may little heed the changing of the seasons, but here in the Bay the sea spray leaps as though a rainy breeze into the air.

So it is that within the Desert Tower, many of the servants and guardsmen with little to do can be found in the Kitchens; warming themselves by the ovens and waiting out the wind's cease. Half are tall, lighter skinned folk in Desert livery, while the others seem summoned from out of the dunes; dark, burnished skin clasped in burly tunics.

And in their midst a litter has been prepared for Farielle, brought into the Tower only this very morning at Lojrul's order, and space has been cleared for the cooks to offer up anything that might rekindle her appetite. They press her often, but not unkindly with snatches of Westron, but for the most part the staff of the Tower simply gaze with interest at this strange-skinned woman.

Farielle seems strangely jittery - all her muscles are drawn tight as bowstrings, and they twitch and jump randomly. The girl herself is doing nothing but sitting as still as possible, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to keep them from moving. It seems she is trying to keep her eyes focused unmovingly also, but her gaze darts about nearly as randomly as the muscle twitches.

Since being brought here, she has eaten nothing and said nothing, but now she swallows, and tries her voice. It is steady, but little more than a whisper. "I am thirsty." She waits to see what response there will be.

The guard now escorted in is in the livery of Seaward. Khaan looks about, and then settles a grim-faced stare on Farielle. "So the rumors are true," he says.

Meanwhile the cooks chatter amongst themselves and nod, and it is not long ere a jug is passed to their hands; water splashing from its lip. They offer it to the girl, watching her closely as the majority of the guardsmen look on.

But at Khaan's entrance, more than a few eyes dart his way, and among the tribesmen especially a tension runs through the room. "Who is this?" asks one tribal man, stepping forth with a scar along his cheek. "The lord said keep her under close watch. This doesn't look like it."

"Do not worry, Raheeb," says a new voice then, and Lojrul can be seen in the doorway, not far behind Khaan. "This man is expected."

Farielle watches the jug being passed towards her, hesitating a minute before reaching out to take it. Her hands tremble faintly - almost imperceptibly - but she manages to lift it a little, then bends her head to the lip. She must be very thirsty, drinking as though she hasn't seen water for a week. Strange words wash around her and she ignores them.

"Haradaic Expected?" Khaan twists to look toward Lojrul. "Haradaic Well...with the rumors, I suppose so, yes. How is she? Where did you find her?" he says, then speaks slowly to the woman in westron, as if talking to a child. 'You are well, Lady? Unhurt?'

'Drink slow!' urge the cooks to Farielle, shaking their heads at the woman likewise as though scolding a child. 'Small gulps. Make better than big gulp.' One of them fetches up a plate which is offered hopefully to the pale face of the Gondorian.

"Haradaic She seems drugged still," says Lojrul to Khaan in the meantime, and he shakes his head. "Haradaic It would seem the villain kept her in a stupor during her captivity. But, she shows few sighs of physical harm. We found her where Vain's men sent word to find her, and found them also..."

The girl finishes finally - not as though she wants to stop, but as though she has drunk so much she can't drink any more. She looks at the jug, then moves to set it down; her eyes go longingly to the plate, then dart around the room again before she shakes her head.

Those words - they are in Common. Before she can stop herself, Farielle looks around to see who has spoken... but before she sees Khaan, she has dragged her gaze back to the spot of nothingness she seems so focused on.

"Haradaic Yes, she does seem drugged. For how many days now? How long until she has healed? And Vain's men..you found them? Where are they?" Khaan watches the woman again, then continues, 'Lady Seaward would like her back.' He folds his arms across his chest.

'Of that I have no doubt,' answers Lojrul, and he nods. 'The girl is hers to claim, of course.'

A sniff, ere: "Haradaic Though I do not handle my charges lightly. I will not speak a word against the quality of her Ladyship's guardsmen, still less her Serpent Guard, though it seems the girl requires some measure of security. I will not release her into the custody of one man, regardless of his skill. When she is better, I shall have my own Tower guard escort her personally, with you at their head."

But then his eyes narrow, and he looks to Khaan curiously. "Haradaic It still amazes me that her Lady's Serpent Guard were not at hand to watch over the pale-skin. Or was it they who were overcome by Vain's men? My own warriors dealt with this Blood of his, and they seemed well trained themselves; by the standards of Corsairs, at least."

"Haradaic Did I say I was here to collect her single-handedly?" Khaan scoffs. "Haradaic I would not be so foolish. But I will inform my Lady that the woman is here. And I assume safe."

"Haradaic As for the circumstances of her abduction, I was not on guard during the time and if you have criticisms, you can address them directly to the Lady Eruphel. I am not here to speculate."

"Haradaic As you wish," nods Lojrul, with a curl of his lip as he looks to Khaan. "Haradaic Your business here is ended then, guardsman, is it not? Unless you yourself wish to look the woman over? You will understand that my men's blades will be at the ready if you try to harm her."

A sniff, and a meaningful glare. "Haradaic I offer greater protection that those held within Seaward, I can assure you of that, and for all I know Vain was working with someone within your Tower..."

"Haradaic The Lady Seaward will decide these matters," Khaan says. "Haradaic I will just convey information of the woman's return to her. Though it seems to me that perhaps your boast of guards here in your tower should instead be turned to your security out of the tower."

A snarl at this, and Lojrul's eyes harden. "Haradaic Aye, news travels fast, I see. Though the death of my Steward is no laughing matter, guardsman. I shall find out who is responsible, I promise you that. That such a man and his regent should fear for their security within the walls of Upper Umbar is cause for alarm, would you not say?"

"Of course it is extremely dangerous," Khaan says, switching to the common tongue as the discussion heats up. "And I would say that the Lady Seaward would agree with you on this. Likely, even, you may have her help in finding the culprit. So. May I convey your message that you have the would-be Queen and that she is..." he eyes the girl..."safe."

The cooks proffer the plate again, pushing it all but underneath Farielle's nose, and when the girl turns her head resolutely away, they consult among themselves and replace it with a different plate on which is something else - perhaps more tempting.

While the two men argue in Haradaic, Farielle ignores them successfully, though the louder tones seem to trigger more little muscle-twitches. But Common again... she doesn't turn her head this time, but when Khaan says 'Queen', she bows it a little, staring down at her hands. The food is - not quite ignored, she surely is hungry - but still refused.

The cooks chatter on, scratching their heads but glancing ever toward their Steward in case their orders change. Lojrul himself replies to Khaan in the Common tongue with a nod: "That would be a good message to take, yes. She is welcome, as ever, within these halls, as she has made me welcome with her own."

He sniffs then, and looks over to the woman of Gondor. "With luck, she will have regained some weight and color by then."

Striding forward then towards Farielle, he watches her features carefully.

Someone blocks some of the light. If Farielle were not already so tense, she might stiffen against Lojrul's gaze. Steadily, she keeps her eyes on her hands - except when something only she can see drifts past, and her gaze follows it automatically. Until she realizes what she is doing, and pulls back to stare at her hands again.

The cooks continue to hover, but Lojrul waves them away and lowers to a crouch to continue to study her face. "Can you hear me, pale lady?" he asks of her.

Farielle's eyes flick up to Lojrul as he speaks, then around the kitchens again before returning to the man's face. There is a long pause. Cautiously, the girl reaches out to touch his arm or hand, if he will let her. If he is really there to be touched...

The Steward does not move, letting her fingertips explore as they will, though he continues to watch her eyes. "If you can hear me, speak to me?"

Tap. Tap. Farielle barely touches Lojrul - only enough to assure herself someone is indeed there. Then in the same disused thread of a voice, she says, "I can hear you." Another flick of gaze about the room - are there any strange reactions? Does anyone stare as if she talks to the air?

And stare they do, but more in wonder at her skin than her strange actions. Still, her every motion is studied by the men of Desert, and Lojrul himself nods with a fresh sniff.

"Good. I can hear you too," he replies. "Are you hungry?"

Farielle has committed herself to talking to this man, be he real or apparition. She nods, one dip of her head.

"Good," he says again, and sniffs. "What do you want to eat? Can you tell me that?"

"I don't want..." Farielle hesitates, her eyes moving to a point near Lojrul's ear. Then she blinks and visibly forces herself to refocus - another darted look around the kitchen. "Is he here?" she asks, very quietly.

"Is who here?" asks Lojrul then, after a long pause. "The man in the mask?"

Arms still folded across his chest, Khaan comes up to listen to this.

A long pause, then the girl nods, once.

At this the eyes of Lojrul narrow, and he sends a glance behind him to Khaan, rising up to his full height again. "I think we should have quieter surroundings for news of this masked man."

He nods to a couple of guards, who reach down and take hold of Farielle's litter. The cooks he quickly commands to bring one of each of their dishes with them, and one warrior is tasked with carrying the water jug.

"To my study," he finishes, and the servants quickly set about their errands. To the Seaward guard the Steward of Desert then says: "You may join us, unless you are not here to speculate?"

The guards lift her easily, but Farielle's hands fly off her lap to grip the edge of the litter. Moving - or rather being moved - apparently affects her precarious balance. Adversely.

"I will follow for now," Khaan says, coming along with the group.

Nodding to Khaan, Lojrul then turns to grunt a few words in Haradaic to the guards, who release their grip upon the litter. He says to the woman: "My men will lead you somewhere quieter, pale one. You have nothing to fear."

And with that one of the guards offers his arm to Farielle.

Farielle has shut her eyes, but she opens them with the litter stops moving. A hand is waiting and she stares at it blankly for a long minute - waiting, perhaps, for it to vanish or grow tentacles. When neither of these things happen, she takes it, and stands.

As the guard stands ready to stabilize Farielle, Lojrul watches her once more for a few moments, ere he says: "The masked man is not here, pale lady. He cannot harm you any more. Whatever he did to you, it is over. Will you not eat?"

Another look side to side. Fearful, hesitant. But these are different men - a different room - it is not dark. Perhaps they are true, the words she thinks she has heard. But if they are not - if Vain is there, still, somewhere waiting for her refusal... Farielle shudders convulsively. But there are women here, too, and not just men. And hadn't she seen them dead? Or was that just another vision. She didn't know; had no way to tell. But from somewhere, buried deep for survival, a tendril of hope weaves its way into her mind.

And at last, Farielle says, very quietly, "I don't want to see things anymore." That wasn't quite refusing to eat. Perhaps they wouldn't tell him.

Understanding dawns upon Lojrul's brow, and he nods slowly. "Then you do not have to. Perhaps you should rest first, until your eyes see only what is real again. My men will lead you to a bed, and you may eat or drink whenever you wish to. I shall come and speak with you later, when you are better."

This said he nods to the guards, who begin to gently lead the poor girl away.


	39. Chapter 39

List of Characters:

**Gondorian:**

Farielle - Gondorian girl, kidnapped

Lominzil - her brother; a squire of Dol Amroth

Imrakhor - his knight

Caronnen - Farielle's father

Nelbrethil - her mother

Eruiglas - Farielle's oldest brother, killed in battle at Caldur

Gwaithmir - Farielle's second oldest brother, a bard, now her father's heir

Menelglir - a squire of Dol Amroth who tried to save Farielle

The Draugrim - a group of men who, in secret, fight against Harad

**Haradrim:**

Eruphel - Lady, Ruler of Seaward Tower

Eron - her husband

Khaan - her guard captain

Nisrin - Eron's younger sister; a friend of Farielle

Barzhaid - drunken & disgraced corsair

Mirdaneth - Captain

Azradi - Lady, Ruler of Farside Tower

Alphros - her brother, claimant to the throne of Gondor

Yildirim - a corsair in their service

Alkhaszor - a Gondorian man sworn to Alphros

Amestris - a young desert girl; a friend of Farielle

Tiribazus - Amestris' father; captain of Farside

Lojrul - Steward Regent of Desert Tower

Niakhti - in the service of Sauron; and Lojrul

S'aria - novice priestess of Sauron; an easterling

Vain - a brigand and a thug; kidnapped Farielle from Seaward

Massai - one of Vain's men

Fazjed - one of Vain's men

Jarad - a street boy

* * *

_It wasn't dark. No one came; no one told her to eat, or woke her with harsh whispers and rough hands. And it wasn't dark. Farielle touched the bed - it was soft. But it might still change. She couldn't trust anything. She shut her eyes and tried again to find the isle of Valinor, but the terrible thirst that scorched her throat and burned her lips dragged her awake. She drank, and drank again. This too was new - as much water as she wanted. But there were still guards._

_Farielle looked at them out of the corners of her eyes - studying them without seeming to. She didn't think they were the men she remembered - but there was so little she could remember with any surety. Her mind was a maelstorm of darkness and pain, with nightmares looming into focus and reforming and fading again._

_At last, she gave up trying to remember, and curled up under the blanket and slept._

Night-time comes round once more within the halls of Desert Tower, and the bustle oontinues throughout its corridors despite the hour. But one room at least sees a measure of peace; the chambers of a former worthy by the name of Hakkad having been swiftly made available for the new guest of the Steward.

Lojrul has installed Farielle in this room, which contains a spacious bed of down, a desk and many an intricate piece of artwork upon the walls. A small table has been set beside the feather mattress bearing a plate of bread and a jug of water; otherwise the woman of Gondor has been left alone to rest as she will.

But, all the same, two guards keep watch over the chamber from the shadows of the doorway, and were the girl to know it, six more men maintain a vigil on the other side of the door in the corridor.

Farielle has lain on the bed for most of the day - sometimes asleep (or at least with her eyes shut, for she looks no more relaxed than she had earlier in the kitchen), sometimes staring at the ceiling. She hasn't eaten anything, though several times, she has drunk from the jug. Small muscles jerk and twitch, and sometimes, she seems to watch things that aren't there - though always, after a few minutes, she pulls her attention away, returning it to a single point on the ceiling. Always slender, she looks nearly skeletal now; her eyes huge and shadowed in her thin face.

There is a quiet exchange of voices in the hall - perhaps two or three - before the oaken door to the chamber protests meekly as another enters. Only once it is carefully closed in her wake does Niakhti turn an appraising eye to the restless Farielle. She crosses the room quietly, though without any apparent attempt to hide her presence, and lowers herself into the desk chair before speaking. "How are you feeling?" A simple question with an obvious answer, perhaps, but it is offered in a honeyed timbre.

And right behind her, slipping in with careful steps, Lojrul closes the door behind them, before likewise crossing the room. He says nothing, however, merely looking between the two women, before he moves to the wall and leans against it to watch.

There is a pause. To look or not to look, that is the question... At last Farielle turns her head - yes, a person belonged to that voice. And someone moves behind her; the girl's gaze shifts to Lojrul, before returning to Niakhti. Another long pause. Perhaps she doesn't know an answer to that question. Perhaps she isn't sure there is really a person there asking it. Finally, voice thread-thin, she says, "Thirsty."

Niakhti leans over at her waist to check the jug of water. When a hollow slosh reveals it to be emptier than expected, a wordless glance is given to one of the guards, who opens the door widely enough to relay a murmured message.

"Of course you are," Niakhti muses, watching even the littlest movements Farielle makes as if they had some meaning to them. The meaning behind the plate of untouched bread, however, is unmistakable. "Have you not yet been hungry, Farielle?" she presses gently, a careful emphasis on the girl's name.

Farielle glances at the bread and a look of revulsion crosses her face. She doesn't answer - not right away - but instead, pushes herself up so that she is seated and leaning against the wall behind. With a deep breath and a frightened glance at the guards, she says the fateful words, "I don't want more bread. I - " Her gaze flickers up to Lojrul, then back to Niakhti, and finally to a point somewhere near the other woman's left shoulder. " - don't want to keep seeing things. That aren't there."

The guards say nothing. Vain does not appear.

"Look at my face, then," the Desert woman asks quietly, seeking Farielle's eyes intently with her own. "And know that I am here before you. The effects of what you were given will fade in time." A smile curls Niakhti's lips, and without taking her focus off of the Gondorian girl, she reaches for a small piece of the bread for herself, taking a small bite with no apparent hesitation. "Surely you won't mind if I save it from waste, at least? I will have whatever else you wish sent up in its stead."

As if drawn by a magnet, Farielle's gaze swings up and over, her eyes meeting Niakhti's. Then they drop to the bread as the other woman eats it, before rising again. There is a long moment while the Gondorian girl wars with herself in silence. Then slowly - perhaps hunger has won for the moment - she says, "Cheese?" She does not ask for reassurance that it will not be drugged.

Niakhti smiles between bites of bread, her brow arching subtly at the small victory. "Cheese it is," she answers without hesitation, and another nod to the guards relays the message down the hall even as a elderly woman appears with a fresh jug of water.

Though her tone yet remains light, Niakhti still seeks Farielle's eyes with her own with a watchful intensity in their depths. "Are you comfortable, otherwise? It is our wish," she adds with a glance afforded to Lojrul, "For you to have all that you need... for as long as you are here."

"Indeed," affirms Lojrul to Niakhti's words. "You are our guest, pale lady, not our captive."

Beneath the hesitance, Farielle's eyes are wary. Watchful and reserved. She doesn't bother looking around at her surroundings, merely nods in answer to Niakhti's question. And when she glances back at the man, there is nothing in her face to say whether she believes his words or not, though she nods again in apparent compliance.

"Good," Niakhti answers quietly after another bite of bread, thoughtfully chewed with eyes yet rapt upon the girl. "I know your memory is clouded by things that do not seem real. So too do I know that it is a lot to ask for you to trust, in the wake of what has happened to you. But you will not be harmed again."

A smile then, and the woman reaches out to pour more water from the newly-refilled jug into a stout clay mug beside it. "Your eyes will steady themselves, and so too will your mind. And when that happens, you may walk more freely again. Do you trust in that?"

Words are no guarantee. And though Farielle nods again - she knows the effects of the drug will wear off eventually - there is not much in the way of trust in her face. More - a kind of acceptance: she has no way of knowing who is lying or when, and even words spoken now in good faith may be rescinded in the future. For now... she reaches for the water and drinks again, emptying the cup as though the liquid has no power to quench thirst. But a small acceptance is growing - this is somewhere else. She is no longer in Vain's power. "Where am I?"

There is a soft knock at the door, and the guards admit another serving woman, this one younger, and carrying a plate of varied sliced and curded cheeses to place before Farielle. In this moment's exchange, her eyes widen perceptibly upon the pale woman, and she seems to leave the room more slowly than she entered it to allow for a longer look.

Once the serving girl has left once more, Niakhti continues. "You are in Desert Tower. I am sorry that you have not been allowed out, but surely you must know that it is your safety we fear for. Once matters have calmed - and we are confident in your health - that will change. Would you like that?" Though her questions are simple, there is much behind Niakhti's features, the odd glimmer in her eye that sparks in every change in the girl's face.

Farielle stiffens slightly under the servant's gawking, but she refuses to look up. Until Niakhti speaks, and then her gaze lifts to the door and the guards there. Out... a smile of sorts twists her lips; it is too bitter to be called one in truth. Without replying, she looks down at the plate, taking a small piece of cheese and eating it slowly. Her hand trembles almost undetectably; she forces herself to wait a minute before taking another piece.

"Perhaps," interjects Lojrul quietly to Niakhti, "she would benefit from some of your... desert healing?"

Even if the subtle trembling of her hand is missed, the import behind the girl's smile is surely not. Nor are Lojrul's murmured words. "Tell me then, Farielle. Look at me, and tell me how you feel now? Truly, if you will. You needn't fear your own voice." Niakhti's own voice is honeyed and low, as if between the two women alone.

Terror flashes through Farielle's eyes at Lojrul's soft words, and though she veils it almost instantly, she can't keep from shrinking back a little. Her hand shakes a little more visibly as she takes another piece of cheese, concentrating on it, calming herself as best she can - save when something ghosts past and her eyes drift after it. Niakhti's prompting draws the girl's attention back to her.

"Dizzy," she says after some thought. "Thirsty." What a feeble word for the terrible thirst burning her throat! "I think - " She looks around uncertainly and finishes, " - someone is watching me. But I - I can't see them." Of the things that seem so real and then vanish when she tries to touch them, of the voices that come from nowhere until a person suddenly appears out of smoke with moving lips - she says nothing.

Niakhti's voice remains consistent, striving to ground Farielle with a timbre fluid like the drifting of sand in a desert breeze. "There are others here, yes, but they are your allies. Who has watched you before? Who have you seen?" A gentle, ever-present reminder follows with a bit more strength behind it. "Look at me. You needn't fear."

The woman's voice is soothing - though perhaps it isn't quite a match for the quivering drug-induced tension. Allies - a faint shake of Farielle's head rejects this. She has no allies in this place. But her eyes move back to Niakhti's and stay there a long moment before dropping once more. "Men," Farielle whispers, trying to sift through the chaos of her memories. "I - I don't know. I don't know what was really there and what wasn't. Someone with a mask. White and red. He - " She shivers and is silent. "Lord Alphros."

The Desert Steward stiffens at this, and he glances alertly to Niakhti, though he says naught as yet.

"Alphros was there?" Niakhti presses gently, slowly leaning closer to close a nonthreatening fraction of the distance between them. By the care in her words, she endeavors to keep any trace of disbelief from her voice, even as the Steward tenses behind her. Her sun-burnished face remains equally placid. "Did he speak to you, Farielle?"

The face so clear in Farielle's memory fades as she tries to catch it, like a rainbow that stays always just out of reach. "I - I don't know!" She starts to shake, blinking rapidly as thought and memory fragment. "No - no, I don't - I can't - " One hand comes up as if to ward something off, though her fist is clenched. Though she stares at Niakhti, it's obvious she isn't seeing the woman any longer.

As an apparent fog descends over Farielle, Niakhti steals a moment aside to whisper to Lojrul. "This will be difficult. Perhaps until tomorrow." This is all she dares as yet, lest the words influence the apparitions Farielle sees.

"Peace, Farielle," as Niakhti turns again upon the girl, her name echoed again. "You have comfort and food untainted by that which has poisoned your mind. There are none here who would strike you. None who would harm you." The words fall into the cadence of a chant of sorts, and though their speaker may not be seen for the moment, she seeks the young Gondorian woman's eyes with no less urgency.

His eyes narrowing, Lojrul nods all but impercetibly as Niakhti addresses him, ere he leans back against the wall once more.

It has been a few days since the last dose was sprinkled onto water or kneaded into bread, and most of the effects would likely have already worn off, if the girl hadn't been kept on it nearly constantly for most of a month. But still, this isn't a true delusion - only the memory of one - and Niakhti's voice penetrates into the dark maelstrom of Farielle's mind. She blinks, a face rises into focus. The shaking doesn't stop, but the girl lets her arm drop, looking bewildered and vulnerable. There is no one there. Is there? She looks around the room uncertainly.

Niakhti's eyes narrow somewhat as Farielle returns to the present, and a further aside to the guards is offered. "Send for incense. Kariyz will know the blend."

Upon returning the weight of her gaze to the girl. "If you will not look to me, Farielle, then focus on your own hands before you, for you know them to be yours. Trust in your memory, and that the illusions it has turned upon you are fading where your own recollections of truth shall remain."

Another moment between them, and Niakhti's voice renews, not upon Farielle's attacker, but upon another subject of interest. "Remember Alphros. Remember his voice. Did he speak to you?"

Focusing on Niakhti's face for a moment, Farielle nods a tiny bit. That was what she had tried to do, refusing to acknowledge the visions , but they had been too strong. Still, she drops her eyes to her own hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. The knuckles are white, the fingers bony though finely shaped. Obediently, she tries to remember once more, but in the end only shakes her head. "I can't remember," she says softly.

This sinks in for a moment, and muffled footsteps pass down the hall into silence once more. When Niakhti continues, it is with a dark intensity - the beginnings of impatience? - behind her eyes that is mercifully absent from the timbre of her voice. "Tell me what you do remember? Any words spoken to you, or in your company? Worry not for the speakers' faces, if they elude or frighten you."

Any impatience is lost on the girl; she hasn't looked up. "Eat. They said, eat. Or ... " She shudders, the hollows around her eyes looking more bruised than ever. "Stay silent... you can go home." Little by little, almost too fragmented for understanding, Farielle repeats bits of words that swirl into her mind. "He'll hurt you. Vain's coming... No more. Eat. Take her out. Wake up. Need to ... her see him. Sit up and eat. Massai, did you bring it?"

There is little, spoken in a flat monotone. The men spoke little around her, and the drugs erased most of what she might have heard.

"Massai," Niakhti echoes with interest the name and eyes that flash in an instant to Lojrul. "One of the men who watched you?" By the audible excitement that forces its way around the edge of her carefully-metered alto, there is much more to follow whatever thought has spurred the question.

"I - " A face swims into Farielle's memory. "Yes?" And again, the perpetual echo, "I don't know."

"Very well," Niakhti answers simply, her voice yet soft, though abruptly turned elsewhere as she rises from her chair at last. "There will be nothing further accomplished until she's eaten, and slept properly, I suspect," come a few quiet words aside for Lojrul. "Would you have me stay, or see to... other business in the meantime?"

"As you say," answers Lojrul to this, nodding with a sniff as he stirs form his place against the wall. "There is no use in trying further this night, and we have other business that requires our attention. But if her wits are yet addled from Vain's ministrations, then no other guest will find her of value either."

He looks to the guards. "See that she is not disturbed unless it be by myself or the Hand, and alert either of us should she wake from her stupour."

Farielle sits silently, staring at her hands, making no response to Niakhti's leaving, nor to the quiet conversation between the Haradrim woman and Lojrul. But eventually, she takes some more cheese and eats it. And as the light outside fails, she sleeps.

* * *

A night and a day have passed, during which Farielle has been left alone - for the most part. Two guards have remained at the inner door, and servants have come in and out, more often perhaps than strictly necessary to bring the food and water that is their excuse.

But the girl has slept for some part of this, eaten more, and lost a measure of the thirst that plagued her earlier. At some point in the night, she had paced restlessly back and forth, picking up things and setting them down again without ever really looking at them, though she never tried to go through the door.

Now though, she is standing at the wall looking at a map. The writing is strange to her, and she frowns as she puzzles at the coastline.

One of the guards steps aside long enough to let another pass into the room, as many have throughout the past day and night. This one, however, speaks but a word at first, in a tongue as strange in its flow as the writings the girl studies.

"It is the name my people have given the Bay of Belfalas, though many of them have never seen it," Niakhti continues, the Sindarin word coming as easily, albeit in a peculiarly accented fashion. "Have you an interest in geography?" Even as she asks, the Desert woman crosses the room to stand a few paces behind Farielle's right shoulder, arms crossed casually in front of her as she watches the back of the girl's head.

Muscles have lost their bowstring tension, no longer jerking randomly as over-wrought nerves fire without warning. And so Farielle's sudden stillness as someone not only comes in, but speaks, might be more easily noticed. After a moment, she places her finger on a blue-colored curve. "This?" She tries to repeat the word Niakhti has said, mangling it, though not too badly.

Niakhti smiles at nothing - or at least, without audience. "Yes," she answers, in which the smile can be heard, perhaps. "But if ever you are to come across a chieftain of the Haradwaith who asks from where you hail, I do not suggest that be the waypoint you give him. Not that I expect you shall find yourself in those surrounds."

Slow steps bring her around to Farielle's peripheral view. "You appear to be recovering. Eating. Sleeping." If these are questions, or she seeks confirmation, it is betrayed only by the curious way she watches... and waits.

"Where should I say I am from?" Farielle asks curiously, and repeats the first word under her breath. Her eyes slide sideways as Niakhti comes into view. A pause. "Yes."

She is still gaunt-thin - it will take more time to regain lost weight - but the hollows of her eyes are not so shadowed or so deep.

"Alas, my dear girl, I fear you have no answer to give that your pallor would not betray," Niakhti sighs, though amusement remains upon her face as she sets to pacing once more, seeming rather uninterested in the papers she mimes rearranging upon the desk, the rest of which has been well-cleared. "The Haradwaith is a different place. You might think its men crude, and I doubt you would find their interest in you to be the savory sort."

"Perhaps you should put it from your mind," she adds as an afterthought. "You are safe here, after all."

Farielle nods in seeming agreement and turns away from the map, standing now with her back to the wall and watching the woman fidget around the desk.

The papers now straightened, and perhaps Farielle's gaze felt upon her, Niakhti smiles at some thought unspoken, saying nothing for a long moment but for an aside to the guards. "Leave us."

Without even so much as a questioning glance, the two Desert-garbed men step into the hall, where their footsteps are heard to halt just beyond the door.

"Farielle," Niakhti murmurs, in a honeyed timbre not unlike that which reached out through the mental fog not long before. "I require your help."

The Gondorian girl watches the guards leave, her gaze returning to Niakhti's face as the woman speaks again. She waits, quietly.

"I know you probably think our ways of justice cruel," Niakhti begins, though allowing no time to agree or dissent. "But surely you know, as well as any now, how very desperately times call for it. Evil such as that which has been done to you breeds even now in dark places, hiding behind those who are not your enemy. If it is not flushed like venom from a wound, it shall remain. And the strife that brings war with your cities of stone will go unchecked."

This has of yet been spoken to a wall, and when Niakhti turns, it is with an urgency upon her fine bronzed features. "Those who now guide Desert Tower have long worked to unify the peoples of the Haradwaith, with which I doubt you and your House of Girithlin have concerned yourselves. It is rightfully so."

A hush falls over her. "We would see Umbar at the same peace. But as long as those who torment us wear masks, it cannot be so. Your masked man must be found."

Farielle is silent still, listening. Something flickers through her eyes at one point, but still she says nothing. Until Niakhti is finished, then she speaks a single word. "Vain."

"Vain is a phantom only. A masked fool," Niakhti hisses, the picture of kindness faltering ever so slightly like a still pool of water disturbed by an idly-cast pebble. It is regained in a moment, but a fire burns yet behind her eyes as she takes two steps to skirt the room toward Farielle, if not directly. "The words he spoke to you? An inflection upon his voice? If there is aught else you might recall, Farielle, I must press upon you how important it may come to be.

"But... " Farielle falters, sudden doubt springing to her eyes. She shuts her eyes, pressing her hands palm-flat against the wall. "No," she says after a moment. "He was real. I remember that. He came in the night, to the garden. He sounded..." A frown wrinkles between her eyes. "Not right," she decides at last. "Not like a man."

"Yes, he is as real as you or I," Niakhti returns quickly. "But he has a face beneath his mask, and a name besides. He must. And just as truly, he has a reason for taking you from beneath Seaward watch." Eager to seize upon whatever recollection furrows Farielle's brow now, she draws another step nearer, studying her pale, drawn face. "Not right?" she echoes hushedly. "Like an animal, perhaps, or a shade?"

"I don't know," Farielle answers, still frowning in perplexity. "Not like an animal, exactly... but not like the voice of a man."

"I do not know why he - he wanted me." Her voice falters then strengthens. "Only to give me back again. I - I think they said that?"

This freezes the Desert advisor's steps, and for a long moment, she simply watches Farielle to see if she will continue. "To give you back," Niakhti echoes once more, the conviction in her voice perhaps meant to lend Farielle confidence in the memory. "But not unchanged. To first be brought to question your reality, somehow. Perhaps, in the end to bear some kind of message?" Her thoughts stream forth quietly, each with a careful vigil upon Farielle's reaction.

But the girl shakes her head. "They gave me no message. None I can remember at any rate - and what good is a message you cannot remember?" She sighs. "I am sorry, Lady. All I remember is darkness. I think I sat a long time - days perhaps - tied. Then... someone came and took away the ropes. And all after that is broken. It swirls in my mind and things come and go, and I do not know what was real and what was not." She is still a long minute, something that she does remember turning her white face still paler. Her voice drops to a whisper and her hands press harder against the wall. "I tried not to eat and he came..." Her voice changes slightly when speaking of the person who untied her - she remembers this man with some warmth - then hardens again as she goes on.

Frustration wars with the thin veil of patience Niakhti wears; and yet as Farielle struggles with this last thread of recollection, an ember - perhaps of hope - struggles back to life in the depths her dark eyes. "You were untied, and... Vain came? The masked man? He frightened you?" She too speaks quietly, as if a breath even slightly too strong would sweep away the memory.

Farielle's voice goes on, barely audible. "I think they put something in my food. I said I wouldn't eat, and they laughed... It was dark. Yes. Vain. He said - he said he would ... If I did not. So I ate. And the - the visions came again, after that. I was so thirsty, always."

"You will not be made to feel that way again," Niakhti answers with a quiet fierceness. "And Alphros?" she presses next, her voice tensed upon the name, though quiet nonetheless. "You saw him, in truth or in trick?"

Farielle's eyes flick to Niakhti's, fixed there for a long minute. "I cannot say," she says finally, wearily. "I thought that I saw him. In the lamp-light. I see his veil getting larger and smaller and larger again. But I thought I saw ... " Her voice tightens with pain. "... so many things."

Niakhti sighs tensely, pacing to the thin shaft of dimming light from the room's lone sliver of a window. Whether in discouragement or resignation of some other sort, her slender shoulders lose something of their poise. "Forget them, if you can. I'll ask no more tonight, short of your wishes from the kitchen," she says flatly with eyes hardened upon the narrow span of desert in her view.

"I am hungry," Farielle admits, sounding almost surprised. Her thin figure loses some of its tension. And wistfully, "I suppose you don't have any ... " She cuts herself off, abruptly. "Anything is fine. Just - no bread, please."

"Do not be afraid to take the folk of Desert upon their offer. Anything you wish to eat," Niakhti echoes a promise given a few days before, a slender brow arched in apparent amusement at the girl's moderated answer as she waits for another.

But the girl still hesitates - not memories, but the feelings they left behind, warring in her mind. She shivers, warming her arms with her hands, then rubbing them together as if they are dirty. Almost at random, Niakhti insisting on an answer, she says, "That rice dish with beans? And some kind of squash in it?"

Niakhti smiles then, her manner different upon opening the oaken door to admit the two guards. "I shall have it sent along shortly. Rest well." A simple farewell before she exits, followed by footsteps more halting and harried than Niakhti's usual slow cadence down the hall.

Farielle watches her go, watches the two guards come back to stand inside the now-shut door. They glance at her, but then away. Slowly, the sick feeling leaves her, and she goes to sit on her bed, waiting for the food to be brought.


	40. Chapter 40

Another day gone by. The room is dim, a curtain hung over the single window, but it isn't dark. Farielle has all but tried to claw her way out of the room when the lamps were put out - and now one burns constantly.

Farielle is sitting on the bed, a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and leaning back against the wall. Her eyes are shut. She has always been slender, but now she is gaunt; bones pressing against white skin. The hollows of her eyes are dark and bruised-looking, but better than they were a few days ago.

Eruphel moves into the room. In the past six weeks, her pregnancy has finally begun to show. And while she refused any sort of frisking, she left her guards down the hall, within hearing distance. She wears a worried smile as she walks in, but as she sees how the poor girl looks, she gasps, and moves forward to slip onto the edge of the bed. "Farielle!" she says in a conspiratorial whisper type voice, to wake her if she's sleeping.

Farielle's eyes flick open - she was not asleep. She blinks, focusing on Eruphel's face. A small frown draws her eyebrows together and she drops her gaze to her to own hands for an instant, rubbing the blanket edge between her fingers, before looking back up. "Yes...?"

"Farielle. You look /terrible/!" Eruphel says, scooting a bit closer with a concerned look on her face, and opening her arms for an embrace. "Come to me."

There is something in Farielle's eyes that has never been there before - a wall hard and smooth like glass, as if some essential part of herself has been withdrawn - and all of her reactions are subdued. Lessened somehow. She hesitates as Eruphel speaks. She won't shrink away if Eruphel hugs her, but she makes no move towards her either. "I am well," she says. A moment more passes as if she tries to think of some acceptable response. "Tired."

"You look tired." Eruphel says, her voice still sympathetic. She does not reach forward to hug Farielle, though. Instead, her arms lower to her lap. "We have been searching for you...the whole city has." She tilts her head, still trying to read the girl. "Are you ready to return to Seaward?"

There is the faintest tightening around the girl's eyes, but almost no emotion in her voice at all. "Whatever you say, Lady," she replies politely.

Eruphel seems to grow more tense at the girl's reaction. "I am giving you a choice, Farielle. Seems like you have not had one in a while."

A choice. Farielle looks suddenly, perhaps unaccountably nervous. Or perhaps it is not so strange after all. Her eyes slide away from Eruphel's and land on the plate. Oh, yes. She reaches for a piece of fruit and eats it slowly. "They are kind to me here," she says at last.

"Then you can stay, for now. I must talk to the tower's new Steward anyway, before you can come home. I had been thinking while you were gone...that I am in need of a Lady-in-Waiting, especially during this time. And you seemed to me well-suited. Things may not work out that way in the end, but what do you think?"

Farielle takes another piece of fruit, eating it equally slowly. Her eyes drop to Eruphel's stomach and the slight swell there. At last, she nods. "If you wish it, Lady."

"Well, that all depends on you, Farielle..." Eruphel smiles very slightly. "I do not take just any noble as a handmaiden. You would have to want such a position, for you cannot fill it passively." She starts to say more, but stops herself.

Something flickers in Farielle's eyes and she looks away, her mouth twisting slightly. But when she looks back, her face is smooth again. Courteously, she asks, "What does a lady-in-waiting do?"

"Keep me company, witness my dealings, chaperone, and occasionally run errands," Eruphel shrugs, and looks away. "I will also want you to recount your interactions with this Vain, so I might deal with him accordingly."

Farielle considers this, looking down at her hands so that her eyes are hidden. "I can do that," she decides at last. At Vain's name, she becomes even more still, and there is a long pause. "Now?"

"No. For now...rest." Eruphel says smiling, and she reaches forward to give a reassuring pat. "I will send people daily to check up on you." Now Eruphel stands. "And if there is something you need, I would send that also."

The girl doesn't flinch from the touch. She holds perfectly still, neither moving nor looking until Eruphel has stood up. Then she draws the blanket more closely about her shoulders; her face looks more drawn and weary, even in this short time since Eruphel has come. "Boots," she says softly. And indeed, she is barefoot - and there are no shoes set neatly by the door. "I would like some boots. I - I have lost my shoes."

"Ah...I see." And indeed, she does, now. "I will send an entire wardrobe before the night falls." the Tower lady says. She turns to leave, but pauses at the door, about to say something. But she chooses her words carefully. "I suppose after this, Lord Alphros' slights seem...slight. Childsplay," she muses to the girl.

Every muscle in Farielle's body is suddenly tense. Her fingers clench white on the blanket, and she forces herself to let go - only to dig the fingernails into the palms of her hand. "I saw him," she whispers, staring at the air in front of her - at something only she can see. "In the dark."

Farielle's reaction is not encouraging to Eruphel. "Ah. Well when you are feeling better, you can tell me all about it. Meanwhile, sleep." She offers a quick smile that is brief and worried, then steps out the door.

The small sharp pains in her palms grounds Farielle to the here and now. She looks up at the sound of Eruphel's voice, and her mouth moves in what should be a smile, did it touch any other part of her face. The lady leaves, and Farielle leans back against the wall, trying to relax again. It is not dark. There is no one here.

Only a few days new to the city though she may be, an Easterling tends to attract attention in Harad, especially one bound into the service of the Eye. That she was probably not doing anything priestly when she was hauled into this tower is evident enough by the young acolyte's lack of formal wear, but she does seem to adapt herself quickly the situation, following a distressed servant towards the pale-woman as the guards part before her.

Her dark eyes blink with suprise as she lays eyes upon the woman before her, curiosity sparkling in their depths more than disgust. For a moment, the young woman stares at Farielle before her expression hardens, becoming severe, "Tell me what happened to this woman and who is she again, servant... and this time catch your breath before you speak," she orders softly, her words shaped ever so slightly by a distant foreign tongue.

Or - there /was/ no one here. Almost as soon as it has shut behind Eruphel, the door opens again. Farielle turns her head to see who is coming now.

The serving woman, a bowed older woman of sunworn skin and modest garb, closes the door behind this latest visitor as quietly as she can, her breathing mastered, but not without a furrowed brow to mark her effort. "I hardly know all of it myself, do I? She's been seen only by a few. Ladies and Stewards and such," she answers, her voice gravelly with an age that the strangely accented Common language only seems to emphasize. "But she's been starved, clearly, and put under spells or poisons. Something like that."

Without waiting for further question, she sets about her other duties with nary a blink from the posted guards - folding linens and gathering dishes with as little noise as possible.

The Easterling gazes upon Farielle for a moment, her dark eyes seeming to be conflicted before at last the hardness there gives away.

"If I find I have been tricked into treating an enemy of my Dark Lord, I assure you I will be back with the high priestess to have your head and your lord's," speaks the girl, but it is more an after-thought as she kneels down as Farielle's side. Delicately, she pulls a glowing-eye talisman from within her blouse, and moves to open the pale woman's hand to place it between them.

"The Dark One blesses all who turn to his power, pale one. He turns none away who beseech his dread might for mercy," she whispers softly, her almond-shaped eyes darting about to avoid looking Farielle in the eyes.

"If it is exhaustion and poison I can treat this. However, if she is suffering from some kind of disease or... if there are spells continuing to affect her I will need to fetch one of the higher-ranking priests." S'aria speaks to the servant over her shoulder, before turning with a stern gaze, giving her a list of herbs and roots to bring to her. Some of them will likely be in the house, but several are rare and expensive and might have to be purchased from the market in the city.

The oddly accented words don't seem to be comprehended right at once, but then their meanings sink into Farielle's mind - quite obviously, by how her eyes widen, and she pulls away from the other woman. "No," she says, and more fiercely and loudly, "No!"

The strange woman's fingers touch hers, putting something into her hands, and Farielle stares down at it before flinging it away from her in horror. "No, I will - I will .. Never!" She is shaking, her voice wild.

The Easterling girl's threats only furrow the old woman's brow further, but any reaction she might have is cut short. Farielle's outburst gives the servant quite a start, and the carafe of water she had held in leathery hands is juggled and dropped. She makes a sound best described as a muffled shriek, her dark eyes skirting to Farielle warily as she stoops down to sweep the shattered clay into her apron skirt.

To the healer's requests, she adds a quiet nod that is not likely to be seen unless S'aria looks at her directly, then hurries from the room with haste, leaving nothing but a dark puddle of water behind where the jug was broken.

S'aria's dark eyes flash with sudden rage at the outburst, and yet the flames quickly die down as she realizes the woman is clearly half out of her mind. "That, I pray for your soul, was a fit of feverish delusion and not the blasphemy it so clearly seems to be," whispers the patient young priestess before she calmly slides one of her long bangs of hair back behind her shoulders.

She tries something different, not drawing too close yet, but beginning to hum softly. Gradually the melody rises until it becomes a soft-spoken Logathig lullaby. The words will doubtlessly be unintelligable to the other woman, but the melody remains calm and soothing. Gradually the priestess approaches again, trying to coax Farielle with gentle hands into a more relaxed position.

"She is feverish from the poison. One of you men should fetch a fan and water to keep her cool. We can do little but make her relax until the herbs are here to purify her system," she explains to the guards quietly, still humming the melody as she watches the pale-woman with more obvious curiosity now; she has never seen a Gondorian before after all.

As long as S'aria isn't forcing symbols of her people's long Enemy into her hands, or babbling cursed words of the Dark One, Farielle is more calm. She still watches the easterling woman with wide, horrified eyes, but she doesn't resist as she is helped to lie back. The blanket she has drawn about her shoulders bunches up, and she plucks at it, pulling it over herself, and shivers. The melody soothes her further - slowly, the girl's eyelids slide shut. Perhaps she will sleep.

"We'll not be leaving until the girl does herself," comes a gruff voice belonging to a tall, broad-shouldered guard swathed in the amber and crimson silks of Desert Tower. "Another will be sent for water." His compatriot, likewise built and clothed, opens the door just widely enough to relay rough words to another. Afterwards come dull, booted footsteps sounding down the hallway.

It is then that the first man speaks again to S'aria just as roughly. "Come, you may be shown to the gathering halls to wait for the tools of your treatment."

The Easterling girl cannot help a smile forming on the corner of her lips as Farielle rolls over to sleep. One delicate, olive-hued hand sneaks a brief brush of the other woman's hair just to feel it before she turns back around to face the others. She gathers herself with a breath, a wry smirk forming on her lips. "You would guard a corpse, then cure her wounds? Makes me think of some jokes about you Haradrim we tell back in the citadel..." she says with a snicker as she brushes past the men.

When she is in the doorway, she turns glance from one guard to the other, "I shall wait. But tell your Lord if he desires a care-taker, I will offer my services free of charges. I only need a servant's bed to sleep on. The high-priestess tells me to find practice and so I shall. Your guest will require several weeks' care to make sure she recovers properly..."

...

_Umbar. It rose against the horizon, with the sea glittering beyond it. Lominzil squatted in the meager shade of a rocky outcropping and studied the city. Now that he was here, he was suddenly uncertain what to do. _

_He watched all that day, seeing the clustering of people and animals outside one of the gates, the caravans that set off across the desert. Then, in the dusk of evening, he stood up, shaking sand from his robe and gave himself one last look-over. He had applied the walnut-juice only a few days ago, and his skin was surely as brown as any Haradrim. _

_Hunching a little, he drew a fold of his robe up over his head, and wandered towards the gates. As he got closer, he watched them idly, uncaringly, and ambled into the stables. A man was shouting at a boy not too far away; the child cringing and holding up a crude, wooden pitchfork. From the way the man stabbed his forefinger at a row of filthy stalls, Lominzil guessed the boy wasn't working fast enough, or well enough. Or something. _

_He pasted an ingratiating smile on his face and slouched a little lower, coming towards man and boy, and holding out his hand for the pitchfork. He made a gesture towards his mouth, miming eating, then dug at the air vigorously with the tool. The man glowered at him, then spat harsh syllables - Lominzil was dismayed to realize he recognized none of them, despite his weeks of studying - and nodded, pointing towards the first stall._

_The Gondorian began to muck it out. After a while, the boy returned, trundling a wheelbarrow, and hauled the filthy straw out. Together, they laid fresh, filled water buckets, and moved on._

_At least knights were expected to care for their own horses (which meant, they had their squires do it for them), Lominzil thought wryly, and so his hands were hard and calloused. Otherwise he was sure he would have gotten blisters by the time he had them all done and dared to find a dark corner to curl up in and pretend to sleep._


	41. Chapter 41

Eruphel is gone. The other woman has left also. Cautiously, Farielle opens her eyes from where she had lain curled up in the blankets pretending to sleep. The room is quiet and empty, save for the shadowy figures of the two guards at the door. After a moment, the girl reaches up and moves the curtain aside - but dusk is falling if not yet here, and this does not brighten the room at all.

Her motions becoming a little more anxious, she takes the lamp at her bedside, and stands up, going to light every other lamp that she can find: one on the desk, two in sconces on the walls. She is standing on tiptoe trying to light yet a fourth - hung higher than the others - when one of the guards comes over and does it for her.

No sooner does the guard light the lamp than the door opens and a guard lets in another man. This one is tall-taller than the Haradrim-dark haired and grey eyed. He wears a dark cloak, but it is pushed back over his shoulders and underneath is a tabard in black and white and silver-a heron and a tree. He simply stands there for a moment, studying the woman.

"Thank you," Farielle says softly. The guard looks at her, then nods once and returns to the door just as it opens. Caught in the pool of lamplight, the flame adding a false illusion of color to her skin, Farielle turns and looks at the man. In the past days, as the drug has worn slowly out of her system, she has learned not to doubt everything she sees - but still there is a moment of uncertainty: is he really there? She touches the wall lightly, notices another lamp left dark in the corner, and goes to light it.

"(Sindarin) "It -is- afternoon," the man says dryly, continuing in the same tongue-the guard who opened the door gives him a sharp look. "(Sindarin) Why the need to light so many lamps?"

Farielle freezes, her hand hovering mid-air for a moment before she lets it drop and turns around. And now she looks at him much more closely, noting the height and the eyes of the man - so unlike most Haradrim. In the same language, she replies, "I don't wish it to be dark, and the sun is setting."

"Very well. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alkhaszor anAlkhaszor of Gondor and I am here to check on your health." The man bows. "I hear you have been through a terrible ordeal."

Of Gondor. Something flickers in Farielle's eyes and is suppressed. "I am well," she says politely, if not entirely truthfully, going back to the bed and picking up the blanket to draw around her shoulders as if it is a cloak. She sits on the edge of the bed, leaving the single chair for him, if he wants it, and studies him.

"Ah. I see." Alkhaszor frowns and looks at the chair, then sits. "Are you? Really? Well? This is surprising and seems to me a half truth."

As if it is the most unsurprising thing in the world, calmly and with little emotion, Farielle explains, "No one wishes truly to know me or how I am. There is no point in telling people what they will not listen to. I am well enough, though I am cold. I have no broken bones, as you see, nor wounds to bandage."

"There you are wrong, my lady," Alkhaszor shakes his head. "It is my job to ascertain how you are-truly how you are. I am Knight and Herald to King Alphros, and I must make certain that the King's best interests are kept in mind. No matter what others may try to cover up. So tell me. How are you?"

Farielle is still, the stillness of a deer suddenly alert, and she watches the man more intently as if trying to read something in his face or eyes. "The Lady - Eruphel - tells me she wants what is best for me, but she only wants me to say I will marry your king." Her voice is the same, unemotional and reserved - some part of herself has been withdrawn, hidden tightly at her core. "I do not wish to marry him. I want to go home."

"I don't know what you want me to say. I am cold. I am too thin, I can see this - " She lifts a bony wrist and lets it fall back to her lap. " - but I am not hungry. I am not so thirsty as I was. I have stopped seeing things that aren't there - I think. I - I don't want it to be dark." For the first time, her voice falters a tiny bit.

"Well." Alkhaszor lapses into silence for several moments. "I thank you for being honest with me. This is important. I am here to look out for the best interests of my liegelord. The Queen of Gondor must be regal and fitting and sure of herself. It is an important position, and not something, I feel, that should be forced upon an unwilling partner. This would not be in his best interests."

"I will talk to my lord on this. Meantime, though, you should eat and recover your strength. I can tell you this-I know for certain he does not wish you harmed, no matter if you become his Queen or not. He wishes for your safety."

This last makes it past some internal guard, for Farielle blurts out in surprise, "But he hates me!" Then she flushes faintly, dropping her eyes to her hands; her shoulders stiffening.

"He hates you?" Alkhaszor asks in equal surprise. "That is not what he told me in private conversation-on my word of honor, Lady. If you will believe me that those of us that support the King have honor," he adds with a grimace. "Nonetheless, on my word, that is not what he conveyed to me. He has even delayed...matters...on your account. Delayed things that he must and will do-all because he wanted you returned unharmed."

Uncertainty, doubt. "But... I saw him there. In the dark," Farielle falters, looking up to meet his eyes. "I do not remember... I saw so many things and I don't know which ones were real and which ones weren't, but I am sure - I am sure I saw him. The veil he wears - it comes and goes in my dreams." Along with other things, no doubt, to judge by the haunted look in her eyes.

"Lady...have some sense. The Lord Alphros, King of Gondor did -not- abduct you. You were given herbals, teas, things to make your mind see things. If King Alphros had abducted you, why would you be here now and not with him? Think clearly. A Queen must be able to see through such things," Alkhaszor says, sounding irritated.

"I never asked to be a Queen," Farielle says, irritation stirring in her own voice. "I am sorry if I am not sufficient to your purposes - tell your lord this and let me go home. If he wishes a bride, why does he not go to those who are his supporters, surely there are plenty of women who would desire such a place."

"I know they put drugs in my food," she adds more quietly. "But how should I know the secret purposes and desires of this man? I have spoken to him once, and he accused me of being a whore."

"He accused you of that?" Alkhaszor laughs. "And what was your reply?"

"As for your not asking to be Queen..." He shrugs. "You have been given the opportunity. Think carefully on it. Though I, for one, will recommend against his having you as his queen. Clearly you are not fit for such an honor." He stands readying to leave.

For a moment, Farielle looks haughty, every inch a noblewoman, perhaps even the queen he denies her fitness for. "Why should I have answered such an insult?" she asks proudly. "I told him if he could not rely upon my honor, he should look for a woman in whom he could, for I would not marry such an one as he."

To his parting words, she only bows her head. Perhaps that is a glint of triumph in her eyes?

"Very well. You will have your wish, likely, but I do not think you will like the outcome of it," Alkhaszor answers coldly. Saying no further, he leaves.

_Home. She was going home. That thought was the accompaniment to everything she did; the rock that kept her from drowning, the bindings that held her together. Home. Something had crystallized within her when everything else was falling apart. She didn't know how, but she was going home. _


	42. Chapter 42

The sun's light is fresh and cheerful this morning as it breaks upon the fabled city of the Corsairs, the streets of Umbar enjoying a break from the chill sea breezes of winter, and the walls of Desert Tower are lit no less than any fair region of the city. Within the practice grounds the drills of the Tower guard are underway, and it might be noted that more of the liveried swordhands are darker of skin than one might expect of Umbar; the burnished flesh of those who dwell upon the deep dunes present to bolster the forces of Lojrul.

The Steward stands in his study this morning, gazing down from his high window to the training below, hands held behind his back as he watches the men's exertions. A guard flanks either side of the door to this chamber, and they stand to silent attention as their master watches the proceedings.

Nearly two weeks have passed since Farielle has come into his keeping, and by now the servants of the Tower seem well used to the protocol of her movements, for as a knock comes at the door, the guards then step smartly to one side and give a rap of permission.

The door opens, and in walks a studious looking fellow, who coughs for audience. "My lord," says he, "the Lord of Seaward has arrived to speak with you, and I have fetched the guest as you asked. She waits outside, and Lady Eruphel will be here shortly also."

Farielle doesn't wait for long. The guard has barely finished his announcement, when she follows him through the door. She is still thin, far too thin, but not quite so emaciated as when she first came. There is even a hint of almost color to her face - a sign of returning health. She stops a little behind the guard.

Lojrul turns at her entrance, having spent the length of her introduction gazing down all the more, and he smiles. "Good morning, flower of Gondor," says he, relaxing his arms and taking a pace or two forward. "It is fine to see you now up and about. I trust you are well rested?"

"Thank you, yes," is Farielle's reserved, polite response. A brief smile crosses her face - though like all her other expressions these days, it never touches her eyes. "Your chefs have been most ... enthusiastic on my behalf."

Eruphel arrives, her customary loyal bodyguard in tow. She shows her pregnancy slightly, and is triple covered in warm robes, no doubt piled on by her servants. But she wears them open in the front, apparently quite warm enough. She steps into the room, having been shown in by one of the Desert pages. She smiles and waits to be announced or recognized.

And both come swiftly, for Lojrul's eyes flit to the doorway once more, and the Steward bows his head in a second greeting.

"Hail, cousin," says he with a smile. "My halls are graced with your presence, and your arrival is timely. I was just asking your young woman how she has fared since her arrival, and she tells me my cooks do me honour. A man should always have cause to be proud of his kitchens, would you not agree?"

Looking then to Farielle once more, the Steward chuckles. "Thank you, Farielle. They were instructed to cater to your every wish, regarding your diet. It pleases me to know they went about their work eagerly. Is hospitality similar in your own land?"

Even before Lojrul's greeting, Farielle has turned, hearing the quiet footsteps. She nods to Eruphel, the same slight smile curving her lips for a moment, then turns back to Lojrul. "It is where I have been," she says circumspectly. "I believe it to be so elsewhere also, but I cannot speak from experience."

"Greetings, cousin." Eruphel says with a smile and a stiff bow at the waist. "A tower may look impressive, but with poor fare a visitor will come away soured. But a tower that looks poor, but offers a fine feast has guests leaving delighted they came." Then Eruphel's eyes turn toward Farielle, noting how much improved she looks. "Farielle. I am glad to see you better." she intones softly.

"Aye," agrees the Tower's Steward, and he opens wide his arms in invitation. "Come, both of you, and step with me a moment, while my guards fetch chairs for your comfort?"

A quick nod is sent to one of the two sentries, who disappears with teh studious servant ere Lojrul meanders back toward the window. "The training is particularly impressive this morning, and I should be glad to show off the polish my lieutenants have brought to the vassals of Desert..."

Eruphel smiles and nods, and moves toward the window, folding the front of her robe double over her chest as she peers down into the yard. "Polish is good and admirable." She stares down at the lieutenants and their vassals. "Discipline and conditioning now translates to discipline and conditioning in battle, where one has no time to think, only to act."

When the guard returns to set an artfully carved wooden chair before Farielle with a subtle, it is without the servant who left in his wake. In his stead is a tall woman swathed in amber silks, bearing a second chair with little more apparent effort than the guard seems to expend in the effort. Niakhti places it beside the Lady Eruphel with a subtle bow of her own, with a smile that somehow remains demure despite the appraising nature of her gaze.

For the moment, the Desert woman appears more content on the room's periphery herself, leaning ever-so-slightly upon the corner of the Steward's desk with a second smile aside for him, and for Farielle.

"Indeed," agrees Lojrul once more to Eruphel, and he nods with perhaps a sly meaning attached as he looks to the Tower Lord. "The folk of the Sand are well used to this truth, as you know. I am glad to bring their prowess to mingle with the might of the Corsairs of Umbar. Powerful allies make for glorious deeds, as it is said among the dunes."

As Niakhti enters the Steward's smile widens and his dark gaze turns then to her instead. "Ahhh, my lady," he greets the new arrival with a nod. "I am glad you were at hand."

"Cousin," says he then to Eruphel, "I do not believe you have met Niakhti, whose shrewd counsel has helped make my Tower strong."

Farielle takes a step towards the window as well, looking out expressionlessly, and without comment as the others speak. When the chair arrives, she sits down in it - not ungracefully, but almost over-sudden, as if the trek out of her room has wearied her. She says a quiet thank you to the guard and glances over at Niakhti before looking back at Lojrul.

"Lady Eruphel," Niakhti offers in a honeyed alto, sweeping from her perch to take the Seaward Lord's hand in a graceful, now more formal bow. "It is wonderful to meet you at last, after so many missed opportunities. Yes, I have indeed spent much of my life in upon the sands before my Steward saw fit for me to accompany him to Umbar anew." A vague answer, perhaps, and yet confidently spoken.

Eruphel turns, noting the placement of a chair for her nearby, and then looks at the woman who has brought it. At Lojrul's introduction, she nods her head and holds out her hand. "Then she must be impressive indeed. It is a pleasure to meet you, Niakhti. Are you also from the Desert Tribes?"

"And how could I not?" chuckles the Steward himself at this, looking between the two. "It was her skill and piety that helped me unite the tribes, and I can scarce afford to be without her wisdom when assassination is rife within Umbar..."

Lojrul lends meaning to these last words, before looking to Farielle. "Though fortune smiled upon me in that matter, as well as the retrieval of your prize, cousin."

Almost imperceptibly, Farielle stiffens. But nothing shows on her face or in her eyes other than that she is politely listening.

A lot can be judged by just a few words, or a held hand, it seems, for Lady Seaward smiles broadly and confidently. "You have the tongue of a courtier though. Lojrul is wise to heed your counsel. Would that I had such an advisor as you in Seaward." She turns to look at her cousin now, at the implication of assassination. "Ugly words, and ugly times. And yet, unsurprising in method. Many a good man has been cut down by such means. And many more who were ineffective."

She smiles. "And yes, you were fortunate in getting the Lady Farielle back to us. I rejoice, and thank the Heroes for your wisdom." She looks toward Farielle, who seems...lackluster. "I would like the details of such a happy finding, though perhaps at a different time, when we can do so in greater privacy."

"You are both too kind," Niakhti returns to both Eruphel and Lojrul in her smile's last moments before her manner cools upon matters more serious. Though any thoughts she may hold on the subject are left to flicker behind her silver-sparked eyes. They remain intent foremost upon Eruphel as the advisor moves to take up an observer's position at Lojrul's elbow.

Lojrul nods to Eruphel then, and miles anew. "A tale I will be glad to tell, when the chance presents itself. And with luck, we many know more by then of the man's identity. The insult to your Tower's dignity is plain for all to see, but I also am concerned that this cur claims to work for the Eye's benefit. You may take it on good authority, my cousin, that he is either mistaken, or false in his claims."

Sniffing then, the Steward returns his gaze to Farielle. "When do you think your limbs can manage the return across the city to the gardens of Seaward, Farielle? I have nursed you as best my Tower can, and you are welcome to stay longer if your strength fails you at present, but I am bound to return you to your rightful owner. Does the time come sooner or later, in your desire?"

Farielle has had plenty of practice in keeping her expression blank. It is just as well - nothing of her feelings show. Courteously, she says, "I thank you for your kindness. I am quite well. I shall be glad to relieve you of the burden of my care."

"Hmm..." Eruphel says, cutting her eyes toward Farielle. "Have her things gathered, and I will send an honor guard to escort her back anon." the lady says. Then she turns to Niakhti and smiles. "Lady, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you will come to Seaward so we may converse more in depth. Cousin?" The last was said to Lojrul, and she smiles and nods. "I take my leave. Farewell, Farielle." And with that, the Seaward lady heads out the door, flanked by her bodyguard.

"I wish you well, then, pale woman," says Lojrul to Farielle as the Seaward Lord departs. "May your fortunes shift ever as the sand that guides your path. My Tower shall be quieter without the bustle you've brought; my servants have rather taken to you. But I state things merely as they are. You are captive still here in Umbar, even though you have been freed from Vain's clutches."

A softer glance then to Niakhti as he adds: "I pray only that you not forget the kindness shown by Niakhti in curing you of your stupor."

Niakhti's eyes follow Eruphel's departure for a long moment, then return readily to the young Gondorian woman. "Your absence will indeed be felt, Farielle. But I am sure your keeping at Seaward will be fair. Safer, perhaps, than it was the first time." There is a smirk behind these words with a smile aside for Lojrul that, while furtive, is kindly enough when turned back upon the girl. "How soon will you take your leave of us?"

"I have forgotten no kindness shown to me," is Farielle's reply. Perhaps her words could be read several ways, though there is nothing of duplicity in her tone. To Lojrul's continued hammering in of her status, she gives no reaction. He might just as well not have spoken. She rises. "Quietness, perhaps, will be its own blessing." With another meaningless smile for Lojrul and Niakhti, she replies, "When Lady Eruphel's guards are available to escort me as she promised. I shall go and rest now." She inclines her head to them both, rather regally, and turns away.

Watching her go, Lojrul sniffs ere he dismisses the last sentry to follow her. His eyes then turn to Niakhti once more, and he says: "It seems they stoke pride rather than sense in the Stoneland. I wonder what Eruphel and Azradi will find when they inspect this possible bride of Alphros..."

...

_In his week of being a stable-boy, Lominzil had still not figured out how to get past the guards at the gate. He had watched, learning their movement, when they were relieved. He crouched in the shadow of the walls, sometimes, begging from the merchants who lined up to show their papers and pay their tax and pass within; and saw that none could go in without papers, excepting those who appeared to be slaves or servants. _

_He was considering how he might attach himself to one of these men, when he saw a young woman come out of the city. She was dressed in black and red, and wandered through the animal yards, pausing to look at this pen and then that one. _

_He lost sight of her when she headed back towards the mumakil, and returned his gaze and his thoughts to the line of merchants. Near the end, there was a man leading several over-burdened donkeys, who didn't appear to have either boy or slave to help him. Lominzil watched him without seeming to. If he went to help the man, if something fell off one of those donkeys, or if the beast panicked or balked for some reason... there was a chance the guards would think he belonged to the donkey's owner and not scrutinize him too closely._

_He flicked a glance back at the gate. It might work. They were clearly bored, though not bored enough to not check and stamp every paper. But only those of the merchants; not of their chattel. He let his hand fall to the sand, feeling about for a pebble. He would throw it ... _

_A shadow fell over him, and he looked up, pasting on his sweet idiot's smile and holding out his hand, palm up, as if for a penny. It was the woman he had seen earlier. She was younger than he had thought, and said something to him in what even he could tell was slower and more accented Haradaic than the others. He shrugged, holding his hands up helplessly, and touched his ears and then his mouth. _

_She cocked her head, peering down at him, and said something else. Lominzil kept his silly grin on his face, but thought she must be a bit dim, if she kept trying to talk to someone who clearly was deaf... _

_At last, the woman - the girl - seemed to come to some decision, for she beckoned to him imperiously, and turned away. He blinked at her back a moment, then stood, careful to keep his shoulders hunched to disguise his true height, and followed her. She was going towards the gates, and his heart quickened. Was it to be so easy after all?_

_It was. The girl said a few sharp words to the gate guards, and passed inside. Lominzil hurried after her, his head ducked subserviently, and his shoulders tight against the expected blow or cry. None came. He was in the city, unsuspected. Cautiously, he looked up and around. A long road stretched ahead of them, with two curving branches that led off to the right and the left. These looked like major thoroughfares, but buildings crowded on every side, and there were smaller alleys and cracks that didn't deserve the name of alley, but were no more than black slits between sand-colored walls._

_And there were people everywhere. Lominzil hurried to catch up with his benefactor before he lost her, then wondered if he should have taken the opportunity to fade into the throng and be lost. But it was too late now, she was turning to look for him. A smile crossed her face when she saw him, and she beckoned him onwards. _

_Resignedly, he followed. The girl turned this way, and that, finally coming out into a relatively quiet corner. The hubbub of the great streets was muted here, and only a few people crossed the sun-baked dirt of the road. She stopped, turning to look at Lominzil. Then she started to gesture, speaking as she did so. You - she pointed to him, then folded her hands against her cheeks and closed her eyes. Sleep here - a stab of her finger at a small door in the wall beside them. She repeated all of this, then pulled the door open. _

_It was a tiny room, no more than a closet. There was room for a narrow cot inside_

_and that was all. Lominzil nodded eagerly. His thoughts raced. Should he? But how was he to find Farielle in all this commotion? She was probably locked away somewhere, and even if she wasn't, he could roam the streets for months, and never see her._

_Tentatively, he pointed to his eyes, looking the girl full in the face so she could see their pale grey color; then made the shape of a woman in the air with his hands. He cocked his head inquiringly, waving around to indicate the city they stood in, and waited, breath held tensely._


	43. Chapter 43

Farielle's Room, Seaward Tower

Bright morning air fills the room, cool breezes coming through the open window. Farielle hasn't been back here long, but already a plate of food is set waiting for her to nibble on whenever she chooses. A jug of water sits because the low wide bed. And all of her things, few though they be, are there yet.

The painting supplies on the table, the slippers at the door, more dresses than just two hung at the wall, an empty bowl ready for grain and fish for a bird - absent from the room. Is it even alive? Farielle doesn't know. She is standing at the table looking down at the paints. A thought forms slowly in her mind, almost wordless behind the wall there. _Brown. I have brown paint. _She holds up her hand and turns it over, looking at it.

There is a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Farielle asks, making no move to open the door, though she looks up from the paintpots.

"A friend," answers Nisrin's voice. "It is Nisrin..." The handle turns.

Nisrin. "Come in," Farielle says after a moment's pause. She is far too thin, though no longer emaciated; her bones seem sharper, her skin whiter. And there is something in her eyes that has never been there before - a wall, hard and slippery as glass - through which nothing of her feelings or thoughts can be seen. But she smiles as the door opens, genuinely enough, even if it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Farielle," says the dark girl, her attention wandering shyly across the unchanged room. "Oh, I am so sorry I could not stop them. Are you feeling better? Do - do you need anything?" She is dressed oddly in a mix of azure Corsair finery and a ragged beggar's cloak.

Farielle makes a motion as if she would come towards Nisrin, then hesitates. Memories filter up slowly and her gaze drops to Nisrin's leg. "You tried," she says softly. "You - you were hurt?" A pause. "No, I am well." It is her automatic reply these days, true or not. "Nisrin... will you teach me to speak your language?"

"I'm fine." Another ready-made reply. The girl moves to the wall, leaning against it with one shoulder. "Why do you want to know it?" Nisrin asks bluntly. "Alphros speaks perfect Westron."

There is still no change in the Gondorian girl's dispassionate eyes, though her voice turns slightly wry. "If you truly wish me a most terrible future, condemn me to speak to no one but he... " She shrugs slightly. "If you do not wish to, never mind. But everyone walks past and talks, and I can understand none of it. If I must live here, I would like to be able to talk to people."

"I will teach you, if you wish it," says Nisrin resignedly.

She steps forward, a new urgency lent to a low tone. "After what has happened, do you not wish to leave all the more? Forgive me, Farielle, but it will be difficult to find your home here. Especially since Alphros -" the girl pauses abruptly, smoothing down the edge of her tunic.

Farielle looks away and is silent, struggling with herself. At last, looking up again and lowering her own voice, she says, "I would be lying if I said I did not want to go home. But when have my desires been heeded? Since I am here, it would be nice to know what is being said."

"Especially since Alphros...?" Farielle asks, curiosity tinting her words now.

"They haven't told you," says the Haradrim girl. "Lord Alphros is ... not very favored right now. I do not know what is happening exactly, but his sister, Lady Farside, is quite upset with him. I do not know if being his bride would be very desirable right now..."

"If I were in honor bound to marry a man," Farielle answers, lifting her chin proudly, "It would not matter if he was in favor or not, nor with whom." Then pride is gone and she shrugs again, sitting down on the bed as if overcome by weariness. She reaches for the plate of fruits, taking one and eating it, and holding it out to Nisrin with a questioning look. "But if I marry Lord Alphros, it will not be by my own wishes. I have never desired to be his bride. But what other choices have I? I don't wish to be a slave or - or worse." For the first time, a shadow of fear crosses her face, and she shivers.

She shows nothing by word or expression of the one choice that is slowly taking root in her mind.

Nisrin takes a tangerine, unconsciously squeezing it to a pulp. "I like talking with you, Farielle," she admits. "Were I houseless and without loyalty, I would think it best if you were to leave Harad. Alive and unfettered. But there is much I cannot do," she sighs, looking to the other girl.

"I will swear to you that Eron shall not have you as a tool for his ... practices."

Farielle seems lost in some memories - her hands slowly clenching into fists, her face still whiter, her eyes focused on nothing in this room. At last, she drags in a great breath of air with a shuddering gasp, and sees the girl she's been staring at blindly for the past few minutes. "I wish I could," she says, longing plain in her voice. "I have liked talking to you, as well, but I - oh, I want to go home!"

"If it comes to that," she says, as Nisrin speaks of her brother, "I will kill myself. And I will not fail this time." Her young face hardens implacably.

Nisrin watches the other girl, her face softening imperceptibly from its harsh, imperious expression when suicide is again mentioned. "Your bird is in the gardens," she says. "Its wing is broken. I had to cage it so the snakes couldn't get at it."

The wall is gone in an instant, hardness and indifference vanished. Farielle's eye's widen and she stares at Nisrin, afraid to believe. "It - it is alive?" she whispers. "I thought - I thought he'd killed it!" She blinks several times, hard, and a wavering smile lights up her face. And she flies off the bed to fling her arms about the younger girl. "Oh - thank you!" Her voice catches slightly, but she doesn't cry.

Nisrin reaches to pat Farielle's shoulder gingerly. "It was a simple task of wrestling it to the ground," she smiles. "I daresay it is quite unhappy. Shall I have it brought up?"

"I will come down with you," Farielle says. She lets her arms fall, backing away as her hug is not reciprocated, but the other girl's undemonstrativeness hasn't hurt her feelings - not to judge by the smile that still brightens her bone-thin face. "And I would like to go outside." For an instant, the 4 weeks of darkness shows in her face, but with an effort, she banishes it. And before they leave the room, the uncomplicated joy is gone as well, locked up behind glass walls.

"I do not know..." Nisrin sounds unsure for a moment, eyes darting fearfully towards teh window. "Perhaps, if we come back before night. I shall ask some of the guards to accompany us. Fight off the snakes." The girl smiles thinly and holds the door open for the Gondorian.

"Long before night," Farielle agrees. "I - I don't like the dark, anymore." Again, a brief glimpse of some horror might be seen in her expression. She looks around the room, and as the door opens, says to one of the guards, "Will you see that some more lamps are brought to my room, please?" But her inconsequential chatter sounds almost happy as she follows Nisrin down the stairs.

...

_Back in her room - well before nightfall - Farielle considered the lamps and then decided it was early enough, and light enough, not to need to light them yet. She sat on her bed, looking across the room at nothing, and then impelled by some unknown feeling, went down the hallway to the library. _

It is midafternoon and the sun slants off the stone window-well. Farielle herself sits in the reflected light, curled up on a cushion reading. She has found something in a language she can understand in the library here, and brought it back with her to her room. Beside her, standing with one leg pulled up is a large black heron.

With a brisk knock, the guards open the door, admitting one Alkhaszor of Gondor, who stands in the entranceway, looking amused as he sees the heron. "Lady" he then greets the woman.

Farielle looks up, her eyebrows lifting as she glances at the guards - there may even be a faint reproof in her expression. But clearly, she has a visitor. She lays aside the book. "Alkhaszor," she says, stumbling only slightly over the name which she has heard but once. "I did not expect to see you again." A handwave towards the chair. "Please sit."

"Thank you," Alkhaszor says, turning back to briefly glance at the guards before he sits. "I have spoken with my Lord."

The girl remains silent at this, folding her hands in her lap and looking at him with a slight air of inquiry. Even since he has seen her last, she has gained a little in color and strength, though still the bones of her face and hands press sharply against the skin.

"Ah, you are looking healthier. So they treat you well here in Seaward?" Alkhaszor continues, not explaining despite the look she has given him. "Lord Alphros expressed his concern for your health to me."

"Yes. I have no complaints." Something twists a corner of her mouth up, it is not bitterness, but rather as if she almost smiles at some private joke. Politely, she says, "Please tell your Lord that I am gaining strength. Thank him for his concern."

"You will be able to tell him yourself shortly," the man answers smoothly, smiling. "For I am sure he will come visit you..." he glances at the heron, "and the bird. It is his sigil," he says, pointing to the heron and tree on his tabard.

"Will he?" she asks, though there is little of either question or interest in her voice. She glances at the bird though, and a smile, small but true, warms her face. "Yes - I am glad it is still alive. I thought it had been killed." She reaches to one side for a small pail, setting it in front of the heron, which cocks its head then darts its long beak down, then throwing its head back and swallowing the small fish with a gulp. Farielle watches it fondly.

"Killed? Why would he kill such a beautiful creature? Any beautiful creature," Alkhaszor emphasizes, watching for the girl's reaction carefully.

Farielle looks back at him, startled. The smile is gone from her face; so is the fleeting warmth. "The man who took me from this place," she clarifies, her voice flat. "He kicked it."

"Why have you come?" she asks him now.

"To tell you that my Lord still wishes you to be his Queen. And I back him in that." Alkhaszor shows no expression on his face. "I came to apologize for my previous words to you."

Everything about Farielle seems to stop. Motionless, not breathing, even her heart may have, for the moment, stopped beating. Then the world starts up again. The heron stabs for another fish. Farielle breathes and blinks. "Why?" she asks him. "Neither of you have a very great opinion of me." She doesn't sound offended or upset by this, merely that she states a fact. "Nor have seen anything of me to change your mind."

"I do not know the mind of my lord. I obey what he tells me, and this is what he told me," Alkhaszor replies. "Is this so foreign to you-do you think all men of Harad lie? But he is of Numenorean blood."

"And if I do not wish to marry him?" Farielle waits for the answer her gaze is fixed on his face. "I have known no men of Harad until now," she answers simply. "I never considered if they lied or not. But I have learned it is perilous to trust. But you know your own mind. Why have you thus changed?"

"Ah, well that can be remedied, of course. Trust must be built, and I am certain that once you are with my King and Lord, love and trust both will grow," Alkhaszor smiles.

"His sister told me he would not love me," Farielle observes dispassionately. "Will he force me, then?

"Lady...you are to be his Queen," Alkhaszor says, leaving it at that as he smiles again. "In the meantime, is there anything I can bring you?"

No expression at all mars the girl's face. "Not unless you have an embroidering kit at your disposal," she says, unsmiling. "And you did not answer my question. Why have you changed your mind?

"Nay, I told you. Because my Lord says he will make you his Queen. And I obey my lord and king," Alkhaszor says. "Good day, lady. I will search for an embroidery kit for you, in fact."

Farielle bows her head, taking up her book again. "Thank you," she says to his last comment.

_She stared at the pages, but saw nothing. Nothing seemed important to her anymore, nothing could touch her. Even the brief flare of happiness that the heron was not, after all, dead, had swiftly burnt down to cold, grey ash. She still did not wish to marry, but neither did she particularly care. Steady as a heart was that one thought: Home. I am going home. _

_Nothing else mattered._


	44. Chapter 44

"Corsairs are a superstitious lot." Eruphel's voice as she walks down the hall, can be heard even through the closed door of Farielle's room. "But superstition is often based in truth. There are many who will not fight with anyone foreign, because they do not trust them. But certainly slaves are not brought along, usually." Eruphel's voice stops outside the door, and then there's a knock. A count to two, then the door is opened. Eruphel looks in, to see what state Farielle is in.

Farielle is lying on the bed - perhaps she was napping, but her eyes are open and her head turned towards the door when it opens. The tiniest of frowns, perhaps only an illusion, mars her face.

"Farielle? You have a visitor..." Eruphel says softly, before moving into the room, leaving room for the healer to come in behind. "This is S'aria." she says, smiling.

The girl's eyes move beyond Eruphel to the doorway, waiting to see who S'aria might be.

But before she can come into view, Farielle has glanced out the window; the sun is slanting low, but not quite down. Still...

She stands up. "Good afternoon, lady." And goes to light the first lamp, and then the next. Eventually, all of them are burning - the wicks turned low - but definitely alight.

Gliding into the room behind the majestic Eruphel is that diminutive of S'aria dressed almost exactly the same as when Farielle met her, save for the fact that she has a new amulet. The young Easterling has a jar of very fine Gondorian minced meats brought into the the city by the merchants in her hands as well as a satchel that swells of medicinal ointments and herbs dangling from her shoulders.

S'aria's dark eyes settle on the pale woman's form as a sincere smile weaves onto her lips, the girl tilting her head to the side. She speaks in perfectly fluent Westron: "Greetings again, m' lady. I was hoping we could get to know each other on better terms this time...", she states. Holding the jar up for the other to see, "I asked some of the other Gondorians in the city. They said these might be a treat a Gondorian lady would enjoy..."

Eruphel smiles, on the verge of laughing as S'aria sweeps in. Her chuckle dies down and she speaks. "Farielle, much as I would love to keep you in a good mood, I have some questions to ask." She looks around, noting to herself she needs to have a seat brought in, since the girl gets so many visitors. "The men who took you. Did you like them?"

Farielle finishes her task and returns to sit on her bed, looking at S'aria with a puzzled frown. It clears after a moment as she remembers the woman. But no expression comes to take its place. "What is it?" she asks as the other woman holds up her jar.

Her gaze moves to Eruphel and now something does come into her face - something sick and confused. "No." It is one word, spoken with little expression, but somehow manages to convey a depth of horror. "Why do you think I would?"

"I did /not/ think you would." Eruphel says, her voice serious. "And as such, I was hoping you could recall some things about them, or where they took you, or anything noteworthy that would allow me to find them and exact my revenge." Serious indeed is her tone, and her face as well.

S'aria seems curious too about Eruphel's line of questioning, but she is not going to question the Lady of the tower. The Priestess places her bag down in the corner of the room, crouching down as she reaches inside, searching for something. She gives Farielle a gentle smile, a patient look on her face.

"Well unless they were tricking me... They said you call it minced meat. And you Northern folk eat it during the winter or when you are traveling because it does not spoil quickly. Did I make a mistake?" she asks, rising to her feet. She has a bundle of herbs wrapped in paper in one hand as she offers the jar to the pale-skinned women.

"Go ahead, any food at this point is almost as good as any medicine I can get you. I am just going to get some hot water so I can brew this for you..." And she turns to see if she can wave down a servant, giving Eruphel some time to question the girl uninterrupted.

Farielle looks away, the fine tremor that had disappeared over the last week or so returning to her hands, so that she clasps them together in her lap. Until S'aria holds out the jar - she takes it and holds it instead. "No. You were not mistaken." Almost blindly, she looks around her room; then her gaze lands on the spoon on the plate beside her bed, and she takes it, holding it in one hand, forgotten again.

"It was dark," she answers Eruphel at last. "Always. I don't know where I was. At first... " She takes a breath and shuts her eyes. When they open a moment later, they are calm, and her voice is dispassionate. "They tied me to a chair. Or the bed. All the time. And I couldn't see anything ever; I was always blindfolded. I don't think there was much of a door though. I never heard it be locked. There was someone named Massai. Later, there was a door. I think they put drugs in my food. I tried to not eat, but..." Now she shivers, a spike of terror almost breaking her stillness.

"I - I can't remember for sure. Everything is broken into pieces and I don't know what was real and what wasn't. I saw Lord Alphros, but they say that cannot be. I am sorry, Lady." A pause, then, she offers, "Vain - his voice is wrong. Not - not like a man's voice."

The Seaward lady listens intently, her eyes narrowing as she listens details of import, and murmurs 'Massai' to herself. Questions arise, but she tries to keep them short and to the point. "What was Vain's voice like, then? Did you travel for long between the time they took you and the time they tied you? How were you found?"

"It was - wrong." Farielle's eyebrows pinch together as she struggles to describe something indescribable. "Like, someone not a man was speaking. Tinny?" Thinking like this, abstractly, helps her stay distanced from the swirling memories. "Not long... " She looks up and tries to smile before her eyes go distant again. "I threw a rock at him."

And now the frown grows perplexed, and there is a hint of suspicion working its way to the front of the girl's mind. "They took me out of the city and gave me to Lojrul. I think. I was still seeing things, but I am sure I remember that. He said, the deal was you hand her over to me. Why would they take me only to give me back again?"

"Ransom, possibly. There were claims that this was the work of the Eye." Eruphel feels better...feels like there's some progress. Eruphel considers some more, then says, "Starting tomorrow, I will have you taught how to wield a dagger, so you can defend yourself in dangerous moments."

S'aria returns with a steaming bronze teapot of water, the herbs already stewing within letting off an enticing, aromatic smell. The Easterling girl gives Eruphel a bow of her head out of respect, "I hope I am not interrupting, Lady Eruphel...", she says as she makes her way over towards Farielle. The priestess looks into Farielle's eyes and smiles ecouragingly, curiosity dancing in her gaze.

"You should drink this too if you can... It is very bitter, but it should help you get some of your energy back and take care of any poison that is left in your body." Her brows furrow as she sets the teapot down near the bed, turning to look between the other two, her slender hands weaving together. "Perhaps it would do the lady good to talk of something besides her ordeal for now..."

"Yes - he shouted that," Farielle remembers. She looks a little startled at the news of dagger lessons, opening her mouth as if she will speak - but S'aria returns with the tea, and instead, she wrinkles up her nose. "Healers always are making bad-tasting things." But obediently, she pours a little into the mug and takes a sip, still cradling the potted meat in her lap.

"Yes, likely it would," Eruphel agrees with S'aria. "But it might do her better to see those men hanging by their necks in the Square of Judgement." Eruphel turns and takes a pace or two, the small room giving her no place to pace. "This is enough for now, Farielle. S'aria, I leave her to your tea and healing ways." she says, before stepping out of the room, assumably to make good with this new information.

"Well... Maybe it is just our way of getting revenge since no one is every happy to see us," remarks the Easterling with a playful smile forming on her lips. The girl sits down on the bed, her slender beskirted legs dangling over its edge. "I wanted to apologize for what happened when I first met you, Lady Farielle. I fear I almost made things worse," says the girl as she lowers her head a little, giving her nose a wrinkle. She straightens up giving the other girl a wink, a hint of amusement sparkling in the girls dark eyes. "Don't you worry, I am under orders not to bring up that subject again with you. Though if ever you are curious you are welcome to ask questions."

Farielle shivers a little. "I don't want to see them ever again. Not even hang... especially not hanging!"

Eruphel leaves and the girl draws in a deep breath, very carefully not edging away as S'aria sits on her bed. "Thank you," she says politely, and one by one forces her fingers, white where they clutch the pot of meat, to relax.

Those curious dark eyes watch every move of the Gondorian, the Easterling's lips pursed gently with thought. A bemused grin splits her lips, giving a flash of white teeth. "What are you so scared of? You and I have more in common than you think... We are both foriegners in a distant land far away from home. We both were forced to leave our home... into a life we did not perhaps welcome at first..." She sits up a little, tilting her head over so slightly to the side, then extends a hand for the spoon and the other for the jar continuing, "The difference is here you outrank me... I am not much higher than a servant in Haradaic culture."

Farielle looks up from her hands, having successfully unclenched each finger. Her gaze drops to the other girl's hand, and after a pause, she offers the jar. What she is afraid of... there is no answer to that, or none that Farielle will give this stranger. "I outrank no one," she says flatly. "I am, as I was reminded just recently, property."

"It's not as simple as that... You're simply too important so these rude Haradim keep you under lock and key," explains the Priestess as she carefully opens the jar. Licking her fingers a little bit, she inserts the spoon into the jar, before offering it back. "Just try ordering the servants around, they will listen to you. Why, all you would have to do is tell Lady Euphel that having my neck severed from my body would make you feel better and I am sure she would gladly do it for you. Not to mention Lord Alphros... That's power."

S'aria's eyes darken a little bit, "Me? The Haradrim turn their heads when I walk down the streets, especially the men. Easterling are slaves here or at best servants. Only the Gondorian slaves seem to think I am worth flirting with... If the Church keeps me here I will probably have to marry one..." Judging from that frown and how she pulls her knees to her chest, this does not appeal to her much.

But Farielle shakes her head. "I have no desire to tell anyone to cut your head off. Or anyone else's, either. And I can order the servants, but they will only do what the Lady has told them to. What good is power, if I can gain nothing I want from it?"

She watches S'aria, tipping her head the smallest amount. "Is that how you judge your worth?" she asks curiously. "By how many men look at you ... that way?"

"Well... that how I was taught when I was growing up," remarks the girl with a hint of a frown, a melancholic look on her face. "A woman's worth is about how many men are seeking after her in courtship. I was used to getting a lot of attention back..." She pauses on the name, her eyes flickering to Farielle and she seems to question naming it directly, "where I was before Umbar. But here... I guess the standards are a little different."

Her dark eyes harden. "I am not going to let that stop me from pursuing my ambitions or anything. Its just different... being on the bottom rung of society. Its kind of like your situation, you're not powerless... you just need to learn how to get what you want through different avenues." She bites her bottom lip, trying to seek out the other woman's gaze earnestly. "You are going to have real power, Lady Farielle... there is a lot you will be able to do with it..."

"I /want/ to go home," Farielle says. "Tell me what power will bring me that?" She doesn't ask as if she has any expectation of an answer; almost at once turning the subject. "I don't know what the standards are here." Her voice adds - I don't care. "I would not even marry for another 6 years or so, much less be concerned about if any men were looking at me. I - I would rather they not look at me."

A hint of sadness enters into those dark eyes, a few loose strands of dark hair obscuring S'aria's rounded face, "I would want to go back home too if I was kidnapped." And then the girl lowers her voice as she brings her head closer to the other woman's, adding in a whisper, "And who is to say you cannot seek that as well while you learn to adapt here? The political powers will resist you, sure, but you are going to be the wife of the most powerful man in the city. People will give you favors just to get in a good word in to him..."

S'aria wrinkles her nose, her expression going slightly cold. "It was a long time ago... but I was taken away from my home too. When the Easterling defied Mordor, my clan was crushed and I was among those forced to move several hundred miles in order to settle Nurn in south Mordor where we could be much more easily watched and controlled." There is pain in her expression as she swallows softly, "I had the same attitude at first that you do now... That all I wanted was my home and that I hated those who had done this to me."

Gondorian listens to Easterling. And perhaps is surprised to find any common ground between them. Or perhaps not. Farielle has become quite adept at keeping her expression blank. "I do not understand you," she says after a moment. "People may wish to do me favors, in hopes of currying the good will of Lord Alphros, but how do they think I shall have any influence with him? He does not exert himself to gain my trust or liking; why does anyone think he will listen to anything I say? And even if he did; there is no one who could hope to gain his favor by helping me flee him."

She looks away, down at the jar of meat. Oh. Taking a spoonful, she eats it slowly. Cautiously, "You - did not wish to serve ... him?" She names no names, but her eyes flicker east. To Mordor.

"Of course not! I hated /Him/ more than anyone else... it was all done in his name after all," returns S'arial with a fiery whisper, a flame in her eyes even after a decade as she recalls her youthful rage.

S'aria shifts again, finding a comfortable spot leaning against the bed post. A single dark hair is slid behind her ears, "I was one of the lucky few children to have both her parents with her. But that only lasted a few years... Mother died probably of heart-break and homesickness while my father, a famous warrior in the clan, refused to serve in Mordor's armies. Instead he was forced to farm like a slave... still does to this day. All of this while I was getting beaten almost weekly for various acts of insubordination."

"How old were you then?" Farielle considers S'aria. "You cannot be so old even now."

"Eight when I came there, around nine when my mother died," explains S'aria as she smooths a few wrinkles out of her black skirts. She flashes Farielle a brief grin, "I am in my seventeenth year now, my lady. You cannot be too much older..."

"I am nineteen." Farielle sticks her finger into the potted meat, eating it with a growing appetite. "I miss apples," she says, licking her finger clean. "I /hate/ this place!" The brief outburst is gone in an instant, vanished like a rock sinking into the sea.

A wisp of a frown lingers on S'aria's face, "There are lots of things I still miss about my old home... The horses, the endless open sky..." She turns to the other girl, her eyes distant a cloudy with memories. "Back in the East, our Clan's tents used to be arranged in a circle... every couple of weeks they would roast a giant boar or a deer on the fire. And me and the other girls would dance while the men drank and told stories of the battles or the wild... I think I missed that the most. Its the last time I remember my father and mother ever smiling... They seemed to impressed with me then, what a wonderful wife I would make some day for a nice young Easterling man...", she says with a breathless voice before letting out a sigh.

"Horses," Farielle says quietly, her thin face wistful. She is silent though, otherwise. But when S'aria goes on about her parents, the barrier thickens again. Her voice distant though not uncourteous, the Gondorian says, "I see. If you will excuse me now, I think I would like to rest. Thank you for the meat."

The Easterling youth wrinkles her nose slightly as she senses the Gondorian withdrawing again from her, a hint of frustration in those dark eyes. But she gives the pale-faced woman a patient smile and a nod, "As you wish, Lady. It was a pleasure talking to you..." And then the Priestess hops down from the bed, smoothing out her skirts quickly with her dextrous fingers.

"Horses, we will have to talk about them sometime... They are something I know very well," she says as she gathers her satchel from its place in the corner, her dark gaze lingering on Farielle for a moment with concern. "The drink I prepared for you... if you could just work on finishing it by the end of the day, I believe it will do much to return your energy."

"Very well," Farielle answers. And again, "Thank you." She takes the drink, swallowing with a grimace.


	45. Chapter 45

_From squire, scion of one of the eldest and greatest houses of Gondor, son of a Swan Knight - Lominzil became a beggar, deaf and mute. The girl he had followed in - he realized after a few days that she was a priestess of Sauron - had seemed to realize he wanted to find a woman with light Gondorian eyes, like his own. She led him to this person and that, slaves all of them, but none were Farielle._

_He spent his days crouching in the gutters, holding out his hands for coins; wandering through the streets hoping against hope that he might somehow catch a glimpse of his sister; lying in the tiny, cramped closet of a room - trying not to sleep for fear he would call out when the nightmares came to visit. When he could stay awake no longer, he stuffed a rag into his mouth and dozed. _

_..._

The late afternoon sun slants off the stones and makes a rectangle on the floor. In it, a black bird dozes, its head tucked under one wing. Farielle is sitting on the floor nearby, her back against the bed, her head bent over what appears to be a rather dirty, creased and torn piece of paper. The ever-present plate with finger-sized bits of food sits ready to hand, and without looking, the girl reaches for one and eats it. She is still far thinner than she was a little more than a month ago; the bones of her face and hands pressing sharply against the skin.

A knock sounds on the door just a bare moment before it is thrust open. "Farielle!" cries a young woman's voice. In contrast, Amestris' brown face is even darker from weeks on the road. Her lithe form is vibrant and youthful. She rushes into the room, but stops to look about it confusion. She glances back to the guard who has entered with her and follows his gesture until she espies where the lady sits upon the floor.

The guard nods once when Amestris finds who she is looking for, and goes back out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.

Farielle looks up at the sound of her name; no expression on her face save watchfulness. Then she smiles, though it doesn't seem to warm her face much somehow. "Amestris. I thought you were gone with... " She stops, the smile fading. "But that was some time ago. You - Did your father find a husband for you?"

Amestris offers the departing guard a wondering look that turns into a beaming smile as she returns her regard to the Gondorian lady. "They give you privacy, now!" she exclaims joyfully and skips over to kneel near Farielle. Sitting back on her heels, she replies, "No, papa did not have time to find me a husband."

Her general good cheer fades when she explains. "He was injured and needed to heal. There was little time left to do more than his own business and that of Lady Farside."

"Oh, I am sorry," Farielle says sincerely, though with little overt feeling. "I hope he is well now?" She says nothing of herself or her own situation. "I - " she hesitates. With more effort, continues, "I am glad to see you. I - did not think that I would again."

"My father is too tough to kill," Amestris replies, marshalling her worry with the avowal. Swallowing, she replies with a bit more brightness that slowly increases as she speaks. "I was afraid I would never see you again, either, but I think I have convinced my father to find me a husband in Umbar."

"I am so sorry I did not come to see you before I left. There was not enough time."

She reaches inside her robe, pulling out a bit of folded cloth - a faded scrap of coarse blue linen. Her manner turns suddenly shy as she holds it out. "But I did make you a present."

When she first heard the voice outside, Farielle had folded up her bit of paper and tucked it away, and now the first real emotion shows on her face as she reaches for the cloth, slowly. Surprise. And something else. "I did not - Amestris, you didn't need to..." She swallows, her voice suddenly thick.

Equal measures of concern and puzzlement can be read in Amestris' brown eyes. Her smooth brow creases as she watches Farielle for a moment. Then gesturing to the small package, she urges. "Open it. I told you I would give you something in return for the comb." The Bazhani girls tries a wan smile.

Farielle turns the scrap of cloth-wrapped... something over in her hands, then carefully begins to unfold it. When she glances up again, she is smiling. "Thank you," she says sincerely. "I had forgotten." The last of the cloth covering falls away.

Carved from a pale wood, a small figure rests upon the blue cloth. It is a woman with large breasts and a large stomach, as if pregnant. Blue paint suggests a dress and two eyes; while black strokes suggest hair. A red flower has been painted on the figure's extended belly.

"It is a charm. Each night before you sleep, whisper to her. Tell her what you desire most in a husband and place it under your pillow. It will draw a man like that to you," Amestris explains, her earlier cheerfulness returning. "And when you are married, place it under your bed and it will bring you children."

"Because you are such an important Lady, I even brought it to the Heroes Shrine to bless it." The girl bites her lip and watches for Farielle's reaction a bit anxiously.

There is not much reaction at first. Farielle turns the little carving over in her hands, touches it with gentle fingers. When she looks up, her smile has moved from lips to eyes and there is a suspicious glitter around her eyelashes. "Oh, Amestris," she says. "Thank you. It is much too good of you." She twists around, reaching for her pillow to tuck the figurine beneath. "Kindness," she says then, a tiny bubble of a laugh - a shared amusement - rising to the surface. "I will tell it to bring me a man who will be kind."

The Bazhani girl's smile returns, warm and glad. She rolls to her hip and changes position until she seated properly on the floor with her legs folded tribal-style beneath her skirts. "Tell me everything that has happened in my absence and I will do the same, only you must go first. Has Lord Alphros spoken to you yet? Your guards no longer listen to your conversations..."

Farielle's smile slides from her face, and something appears in her eyes that has never been there before - a hardness, a barrier as slippery and smooth as glass. "I - " she starts. Her hand, hidden in the folds of her skirts tightens into a fist, the nails digging into the palms. "I would rather not talk of it, please. But I have not seen Lord Alphros."

With a great effort, she forces the smile back into place, and an assumption of eagerness that isn't too strained. "But I want to know all about your trip. You went back to your home? That is by the - the Poros River, yes?"

Concern shows upon Amestris' countenance again and she twists her fingers nervously as she watches Farielle. Even after the forced smile, the tribal girl seems n the verge of saying something but then bites her lip. A moment later she speaks, likely on a different topic than she wishes. She does not attempt to hide her concern. "Yes, we live near the Poros River."

She falls silent again, and looks down to her lap. "Farielle, have you ever killed someone?"

It is certain Farielle notices the other girl's expression, but she ignores it in favor of the question. "No," she says. "Never. I have never - " She stops. "I have never wanted to," she finishes finally, her voice colorless. "Or needed to. Before." Another pause. And delicately - perhaps she too is concerned, though she cannot seem to show it - "Have you?"

"I...I could not," Amestris answers, looking miserable. "Even though he deserved it. The night before we reached the Harnen River, we were beset by bandits at dawn," she begins, yet twisting her fingers. She does not look up to Farielle's face. "They demanded papa's horses, gold and...and me.

"Papa refused, of course, and they attacked us. Papa ordered three of his hired men to protect me and I took out my bow. I was afraid but determined to do my duty and so I shot at the bandits. When one tried to sneak up on us from behind, I had to deal with him myself as the others were busy. I shot him, three times and all three arrows struck true. He was down and no longer a threat to us.

"There is no use in men like that, so those who lived but could not flee were slain. Papa's man offered me the chance to kill the one I had shot, but I could not."

Farielle's hand - the one that lies unclenched in her lap - twitches. Then, as if this too requires a conscious effort of will, she reaches out to touch the other girl's arm. "I do not know if I could even have shot him," she confesses. "Lady Eruphel is - is having me taught to use a dagger and I am terrible at it. I cannot attack anyone unless they are nearly killing me, and Khaan says I would be dead already by the time it gets to that point, and I must learn. But I can't. I - "

With her other hand Amestris places it atop the other woman's, curling her fingers in attempt to take it and keep it. At last she raises her eyes to meet Farielle's. "My papa taught me to defend myself, too. Perhaps if you practice with me, you will be more comfortable. The Lady and her men, they are warriors. I am not, nor wish to be."

"Would you?" Farielle sounds relieved, and she turns her hand over, squeezing the other girl's. "I don't want to be a warrior either, and they only sneer at me when I say so. 'Want it to happen again, do you?'" Her voice slips into mimicry, deepening like a man's. "Or shout at me for doing it wrong," she adds, in her own tones. "I want to live where I don't have to worry about things like that, not turn into someone I don't know!"

Amestris does not fail to grasp the implications of Farielle's mimicry. Her face falls into naked distress. "Oh Farielle, tell me what happened!" she cries, "You must let me help you! It must be something very terrible or else you would just be yelling like you do about Lord Alphros."

The Gondorian girl is still, save her hand in Amestris' slowly tightening. After a moment, all expression gone from face and voice, she says, "Men came into the gardens and killed the guards and took me. They kept me for - for a long time. I don't know how long; it was always dark." Her gaze darts about the room, going first to the window and then to each lamp in her view. Just to make sure.

"I think they put drugs in my food. I tried not to eat..." She shivers convulsively and a sick look darkens her eyes. "I don't remember very much. I kept seeing things, and everything breaks into pieces and I don't know what was real and what wasn't."

Amestris does not pull her hand away, even when it is uncomfortably squeezed. She places her other hand gently atop Farielle's. "Oh this is terrible, indeed," remarks, the tribal girl, her distress evident in her voice as well as her features. "But why did they do this? Did they ransom you back to Lady Eruphel?" A sickened look replaces her distress. "Did...did they hurt you?"

"I don't know," Farielle says. "I ... I don't think so." In her eyes is the unsettling memory of things that spoke then dissolved into nothingness; people who grew weirdly tall, only to shrink far faster than they'd grown; the kaliedoscope of colors and sounds and shapes whirling through the darkness. "No, they gave me to the - the steward? I think? Of Desert Tower. I was there for a few weeks, getting better. He sent me back here a few days ago. I - I don't know why they would do that."

"The Steward of Desert Tower?" echoes Amestris, her brow creasing in a frown. "The dead one or the new one?" Then hastily reassures, "If you are not sure if they..hurt you, then you likely were not. It seems like the sort of thing a woman would know."

Farielle blushes. "Nothing hurts," she says in a low voice, and turns redder. And clutches gratefully at the other topic. "I didn't know there were two. But he is very much alive. Or at least, he was a couple of days ago." There is a slight edge in her voice now; apparently, despite his care of her, she doesn't much like the steward.

"If it was only two days ago, it must be the new one," remarks Amestris, a similar note of disapproval in her voice. "The one my Lady of Farside is accused of trying to assassinate. I can help you with nightmares and your painful memories," she continues. "But I must gather a few things first so it will be in a day or two, whenever I can next visit."

Hope brings Farielle's gaze up to meet Amestris'. "Can you?" she asks. "I have not been able to sleep. And I can't bear it to be dark. I told them to bring me all the lamps they could find."

"There is someone else who comes with herbs to help me gain my appetite again, but - still I cannot sleep." Assassinations... she hardly pays attention. Isn't everyone in this terrible place always trying to kill someone else?

Amestris screws up her face and shakes her head. "Papa says it is a ridiculous accusation. He says people do not use assassins on their inferiors. Lady Farside would either have him arrested and executed if she wanted him dead or just kill him herself."

She looks around the room, taking in the lamps and the plate of picked-at food. "I am not surprised you cannot sleep. You need dark. Perhaps if you covered your eyes with a corner of your blanket? Would you feel safe darkening your eyes if the lamps were still lit?"

Farielle swallows hard, and her fingers tighten convulsively. After a moment, "I will try," she says. She looks around her room, and tries to make a joke of her fear. "Maybe if I put that table in front of the door..." Arrested. Executed. Kill him herself. Some kind of determination adds its own hardness to her expression. "I don't know. I have heard nothing of this," she says.

Evidently Amestris does not see the humor in the suggestion. She glances to the door. "That is a very good idea," she declares, "You need to feel safe again. That is why you cannot eat. How could you when you know in the other place the food was drugged?"

"You need food made by someone you trust. I will bring you some when I next visit. I know I cannot feed you everyday, but even a good meal every once in a while should help." That shyness returns and she reddens, "That is if you trust me."

Trust is something Farielle has lost in the last weeks. But she nods without hesitating. "Yes," she says softly. "Thank you. I try to eat but... Thank you. That - that would help, I think."

Amestris grins, still blushing, though this time for the compliment. "It may seem silly to you, but you really should push the table against the door. You will feel safer." She rises to her knees and leans forward to hug Farielle. "I must leave. My mother sent me to the market and since I have been gone for so many weeks, she is more likely to notice my absence if I dawdle too long."

"I thought I should try to be braver," Farielle confesses. "But I will feel better if no one can come in." She stiffens unconsciously at the other girl's embrace, before making herself relax and return it. When Amestris has gone, the guards hear a scraping sound from beyond the door. Like something heavy being dragged across the floor.

The sun slowly sets. Within, Farielle lights her lamps and checks the table.

A noisy clack sounds as a key slips into the lock. It turns but there is a sudden girlish grunt as someone tries to push the door open. "Farielle?", comes a familiar, oddly-accented voice in Westron. Then the door shudders as a shoulder is thrown against it, another female grunt sounding. "Is... the door stuck? Are you alright?", comes an increasingly panicky voice from the other side.

"Who is it?" comes Farielle's voice.

There is a momentary pause perhaps for a sigh of relief. "S'aria! Is everything alright... did the guards try something?" Now she sounds angry, though not at the woman within. "Or did someone try and kidnap you again?"

A sound, as if of something dragging across the stone floor. Then the door opens. A blaze of light floods out; every lamp in the room is lit. The long, low table that usually sat by the far wall has been moved - apparently it was blocking the door.

The guards glower at the easterling's accusations. Farielle waits for S'aria to come in before shutting the door and padding back to her bad. Unsmiling, she sits on it, pulling her feet up under the covers and waving a hand towards the chair. "Did you need something?"

Without any pity for the guards' glares, S'aria slips inside, wearing a long, dark cloak about her petite frame, her cheeks still red from being out in the cold. A curved, dark brow arches at the table before the girl approaches the offered chair, tossing her coat over it and then rubbing her hands together near a lamp, "I was just coming to check up on you, my lady. I just came from the docks after speaking to Lord Alphros... he did inquire about you."

"Did he?" Farielle doesn't sound overly interested. "I am well, thank you." She looks no worse - nor any better either - though the dark circles around her eyes have returned, they are not a sign of illness but of lack of sleep.

"You do not want to marry him right? Then I gave an honest answer...", replies the dark-haired Priestess as she settles down in the chair, a hint of a frown on her lips. She continues to observe the priestess with curious dark eyes before she sighs, "How long are you going to do this? I mean I do not blame you... but you will get exhausted of it in short order. Trust me, I went through the same thing," she says still warming her delicate hands by the fire. "I brought some dried apples from the market if you want them... I can get you things from the market if you ask for them," she says, looking into the fire, her satchel still at her side.

"No," Farielle says. "I don't want to marry him." And now a faint line appears between her eyebrows. "He ... asked?"

"How long am I going to do what?" The puzzled frown grows. "Oh. Thank you. I do like apples."

"Of course he did. He is a prideful man, Lady Farielle. I do not think he will force you to marry him without some kind of assent," explains the Easterling as she reaches into her satchel, pulling out another jar this time filled with dried slices of apple. She gives Farielle a smile and offers her the jar as she sits back, "Be angry at everyone. Keep everyone at a distance. Hate them with all your worth... sure you have a reason. A great reason even. It will just get exhausting after a while, that is all I am saying," offers the girl with a sympathetic frown, a glimmer of sadness in her dark eyes as she looks at the sleep-deprived girl only a few years her senior. "Sooner or later, you will realize it does not bring what you want any closer either."

"His ... Knight told me that he had decided. I would be his Queen. It didn't sound like I had a choice." Farielle's voice is the same, uncaring. She takes the apples, eating one slice slowly, and holding the jar out for S'aria to take one if she desires. "I don't hate anyone," she says then, with an air of mild surprise.

An apple enters S'aria's mouth, "If you stay quiet, you will not have a choice. I was there... his guard lied to him about your assent. For a princess, you really do not understand politics, do you?" The Priestess nibbles on that apple with a growing smile, explainining: "The knight knew his job was to come back with a 'yes' no matter what so he lied about it. That gives Lord Alphros plausible deniability." Her expression darkens slightly, "Look, I do not want to get in trouble for talking to you about any of this. Lord Alphros is a powerful person... I am sure strong enough to even influence... where I work." She looks back up to Farielle, her eyes searching the other's to see if she can trust her. "But I can advise you about these matters as long as you do not... you know tell on me. I just want to see you happy..."

"He lied?" There is still almost no expression in Farielle's voice - polite inquiry is all. No hint as to whether or not she believes S'aria's account. And perhaps that is a faint hint of disdain that joins it. "I shall not tell anyone of what you speak of. I would not, in any case."

"Why do you care if I am happy or not? Your - master and my people are long enemies."

S'aria purses her lips at that, her hands folding across her lap. "Many do things in the name of the Master. None can claim to represent his will directly... True, many hate Gondor because of the wars." But then she shrugs her shoulders, smiling gently. "But I have never fought in a war against Gondor and the few Gondorians I know in this city I like very well. Our Lord desires your people to know his might and wisdom but there are many ways for that to arrive in your lands besides war and hatred." She dusts off her skirts, sliding a bang of hair from her eyes, "Besides... I see alot of myself in you. Remember my family did not follow the way of the Master either so I am perhaps more understanding of those who disagree with the Church than most."

"My people," Farielle says quietly, and there is more in her words than those who live in Gondor, "have long known the tactics of your master. Would any who truly deserved your service and love do as was done to your family?" But she doesn't wait for an answer - perhaps it was a rhetorical question and none is needed. "But if you are being kind to me in hopes that I will come to serve him, I must tell you in honor that I never will. I would not want you to labor under false expectation." Her words are soft; there is no intensity to them.

"Lady Farielle, I may have a way with words... but that would require the intervention of the Dread Master in person and even then I would suspect his efforts would be futile," says the Easterling priestess with no lack of amusement in her eyes. She steps forward, reaching to take the other girl's hands if she will let her. Without taking her eyes off the other woman's face. "I promise. I will not discuss Him nor the Church nor the religion with you unless you bid me do so with a question. You have my word as an Easterling, the vow of a priestess, and the promise of one who would be your friend if you let her," she says earnestly.

The older girl nods. Though she stiffens a little at S'aria's attempt to touch her, she doesn't pull away.

The Easterling's hands are warm, and she gives the other's hands a brief, earnest squeeze, before she leaves Farielle to her peace one more. Sliding a band of dark hair back behind one ear, she finishes off the apple piece she was eating, "Mmmm... It is very sweet, I see why you like it. We do not eat too many sweet things in Mordor or the East," she says before she settles back down onto her chair. Frowning a little, she tilts her head to the side, "What has been keeping you up? I could try preparing you something to help you sleep..."

Farielle relaxes as her hands are let loose. "They are better when they are fresh," she offers, regarding the apple. "Crunchy and juicy." But at S'aria's question, her eyes slide away. "I don't like it to be dark," she says - unnecessarily, surely, by the number of lamps burning.

But at the Easterling's offer, she shakes her head, her eyes widening a little, and draws away. "No. No, I - I will be fine, thank you."

S'aria laughs a little at this, a giggle coming from deep within her belly. "It's just herbs! What do you think I am going to do?", she says before giving her head a little bit of a shake. She is still grinning as she regards the dried apples, "I will have to trust you. I have never even seen an apple before... we did not eat too much fruit where I came from, we were moving too much to ever grow it." She perks up slightly, turning to to look at all the flickering shadows she is casting due to the lamps. "Well, if you ask me this is creepier... But if you want, I could ask Lady Eruphel if we could go for a walk during the middle of the day to the docks. Its very bright there, quite beautiful too. Today was the first time I have even seen the ocean; I went down to the harbor."

"The other was just herbs too, probably," Farielle says, her voice low. She looks around at the lamps as S'aria does, but says nothing. It is better than the dark.

But then a little, colorless, pleasure sparks in her eyes. "The ocean is beautiful," she says wistfully. "I could hear it from my bedroom, if I was very quiet and listened hard." There is a pause, and somehow the impression of intent thought, though Farielle's expression is still shuttered save for that small hint of remembered joy. "I can go out, if I wish, I think. At least, I could - before. Are the docks far?" she says at last.

"Very close. The gate to the harbor is just around the corner from the harbor," speaks the Easterling youth as she tilts her head to the side, seeing that faintest pleasure in the other's expression. "There is a reason they call it Seaward Tower after all." Blinking once, she pushes to her feet, slender hands smoothing out her skirts, a curious look on her face, "Did you want to perhaps take a walk, my lady?" She blushes slightly, a hint of bashfullness as she lowers her eyes to the floor. "I admit to not being able to go there alone as I do not swim and I fear falling in the water... so it would be an opportunity for us both if you so desire."

"Not now!" Farielle answers emphatically. "Perhaps.. perhaps tomorrow. It is so hot in the middle of the day... in the morning? You do not swim? Oh - I suppose not; there is not much water here aside from the ocean. Though Amestris says she lives near a river - the River Poros. Do you know of it?"

S'aria replies with a hint of crimson in her cheeks, "Tomorrow works..." She scrunches her mouth to one side, thinking for a moment, "Well, unless you cannot tolerate the sun it stays pretty cool all day as it is winter. So I would suggest going at noon, my lady." She gives a nod at the name of the river, "Yes, I know the name of the River." She grins bashfully, lifting a hand to her hair to scratch her hair in an embarassed fashion. "Most of the Corsairs in Umbar know how to swim as a matter of course. But there is not much water in Mordor or where I lived in the East..."

"Would another day be better?" Farielle asks. She adds, "What is 'pretty cool' to you is still quite warm for me. But perhaps it will not be too hot at noon."

S'aria chuckles softly at this, "This is very true. I cannot stand the cold much," she remarks giving her shoulders a rub and shivering just a little at the very thought of a Gondorian winter. "Are you... sure there is nothing you wish to do about the matter of your Husband To Be?", she offers tenatively after a moment, a frown lacing onto her lips. "I... want to help you manage your... situation as best as possible..."

"Do?" Farielle blinks. "I shall tell him I don't wish to marry him," she says simply. "When I see him. I expect I shall sometime." She looks around the room vaguely.

"It may be his plan that you are not given the chance, my lady. Or at least not publicly," offers the girl with a frown as she folds her hands in her lap, those dark eyes flickering with though. "I have only recently met the man so I cannot say for certain. He offered me the honor of being his envoy to the Dark Citadel... a most gracious position to give to one such as me." She purses her lips, "I have seen it done elsewhere. A hostage marriage is rushed, the ceremony open only to a few to avoid trouble, and an announcement is made afterwards that all was in order. It would be a simple matter for a man of his political influence to accomplish."

"Envoy?" Farielle looks horrified. One of the first real emotions S'aria has seen surface through the hard glass wall she has put around herself for protection. She looks around the room again, this time as if for escape routes. "Oh, what am I to do?"

S'aria sighs softly, bitting her bottom lip as she looks across at Farielle's movements. "He is a very cultured man, very intelligent... but you really do not want to be his wife, huh?", she says before she propers her head up with her arms, elbows pressing into her legs. "I... have an idea if you want to do something. Maybe it will work..."

"What?" Farielle demands. Then - with visible effort - she calms herself. "Why should I want to marry him?" she asks, matter-of-fact now. "I have seen him only twice, and one of those times he insulted my kinsmen, and the other, me. Why should I wish to stay in this city where every one scorns me and mocks at me, and I cannot understand anything people are saying, and where no one is safe? Amestris cannot even walk alone after dark, or speak to the wrong person. At home, if I speak to the wrong person, they might ignore me or sneer at me, but I do not have to worry about being killed for it!"

"I am not telling you to like it here, Lady Farielle. I am telling to use the situation to your advantage," explains the girl as she pushes to her feet, her shadow dancing across the walls. "The city is a dangerous place. But it a rife with opportunity. The tower lords compete with each other for prestige and power. If you wish to save yourself from marriage, therein lies your salvation," explains the Easterling with a smile in her eyes. "If you were to get a letter to a Lord not allied with Lord Alphros such as Lojrul. You could have them publicly inform the other lords including Lord Alphros that you have no intention of marrying. Such would force Lord Alphros' hand... he could not bear the shame of forcing the marriage in such a situation."

Farielle considers this. "I see," she says slowly. "I will think on what you have said." She looks suddenly very tired. "I would like to try and sleep now."

"As you wish my lady, I wish you pleasant dreams," remarks the dark-haired girl before she pushes to her feet with a smile and a wave, she makes her way towards the door. "Good night," she says before slipping out, letting Farielle decide if she wants to keep the lamps on or not.


	46. Chapter 46

Seaward Tower: Lord's Library

This can only be the main Library of Seaward Tower. Many tomes, mostly old but a few of more recent vintage, prominently line the walls of this eastern chamber in shelves seven feet high. Yet, equally important is the desk beneath the eastern window, and a small arrangement of couches and footstools; here the Lord receives more intimate guests than in the vast hall below.

Following the gentle concave curve of the wall are the windows, six in all from the northeast to the southeast. During the long mornings, the sun makes this the brightest chamber in the Tower, and dust motes from the ancient tomes dance in the sunlight. But the wonders of this room can barely compete with the breathtaking view of Umbar provided by the windows.

In a soft couch, pushed a little out of line so that it sits directly in the bright pool of sunlight spilling through the windows, Farielle is curled up reading. Apparently, she has found something in all this library written in a language she can understand.

She is still very thin, and though her color looks somewhat healthier than a little while ago, there are dark circles under her eyes as if she isn't sleeping well.

There are some words spoken near the door in a language she does not know. The guards questioning a visitor, or perhaps warning them. The curve of the room hides the door entrance and it is only when the light of the first window splashes upon Yildirim that he is seen.

His eyes squint as he passes into the light, and too it shines off his mail that he wears, so new is its forging. But save for that, all in all, little has changed with the young man. He scans the rows as he walks towards Farielle, idling searching for others.

Farielle looks up warily, at the first sound of voices, watching until she sees someone round the corner. But the glare of light off his mail blinds her, and it isn't until she puts up her hand that she sees who it is. And still she watches warily, though some unspoken tension fades - a little.

A short wave is given, "Farielle," as he closes the distance, "It is well to see that you still breathe. I had my worries."

"Are you," a pause, "Well? At least, as can be?"

"Yes," Farielle replies. "I am well." A flicker of a smile crosses her mouth and is gone. "As well as can be." She sets the book aside and looks up at him, waiting. There is little expression to be seen on her face, and her eyes are in shadow from the sun behind.

He crosses the rest of the distance and squats near her chair, with an affable smile he replies, "Well, good then." He motions towards the book, "I am interrupting you from your studies, would you rather I come back later?"

The girl glances at the book and shakes her head. "I am not studying, not really. I just didn't want to sit in my room and stare at the walls any longer. There isn't much here I can read..." She makes a face, though the grimace doesn't seem to reach her eyes. Few of her expressions do. "This one is about sewers or something. How to drain them properly so they don't back up... It might send me to sleep though."

His tone and manner become more careful at her responses, his expression slightly confused. "Would you like me to bring you some books to read?" he asks, his tone muted. "Have the Seaward healers looked at you?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

"A girl comes. Her name is S'aria. She wants me to drink things. I - " For the first time something shivers through her eyes. "I don't want to," she says flatly. "But Amestris has said she will bring me something that will help me sleep."

"I do not know this S'aria. What can you tell me of her?" Yildirim asks, as kindly as anything he has asked of her. "May I examine you, Lady Farielle?"

"She is an Easterner. A priestess. Of - /him/." Farielle nearly spits the word - difficult with such a small, innocuous syllable. Then she relents a little. "She is younger than I, and nice enough, I think. She comes and talks at me."

At his question, she stiffens a little. After a pause, "What will you do?"

"I will look at your arms and your neck, listen to your breath and check your eyes. Before I touch you, I will tell you what I am doing. If you are uncomfortable, you may ask me to stop."

Yildirim head tilts slightly, "Is this all right?"

Another moment passes and then Farielle nods. "Yes." She hasn't relaxed at all though, and her breathing quickens slightly.

He takes a dagger from his belt and sits near the light spilling down. He holds it up in front of her, "Can you follow the knife with your eyes?" And then he moves it back and forth, occasionally bringing it so that she must look into the light.

Farielle tracks the dagger easily, though she squints when she has to look into the sunlight, as if it makes her eyes hurt a little.

He puts the dagger away and reaches for her arm, his fingers lightly gripping her wrist, "Did Vain or his men hurt you?"

Her muscles are tense under his hand, but she doesn't flinch away. "I don't think so," she whispers. "I was tied to a chair or the bed for a long time, but I don't think they did anything." She sounds strangely uncertain though.

He nods, "Did they say much to you when you were with them? Names? Places?" He sets her arm down and then reaches for her hair, pulling it away from her neck slowly, as if she make break, then two fingers against her neck and too examining it for injury.

"No. At least, not ... not that I can be sure of. I did hear a name once: Massai." Farielle does flinch now, a little, but stills herself. Her pulse is light and fast. "They put drugs in my food after that, and I don't know what was real and what wasn't. I tried not to eat..." She doesn't explain the consequences of that small act of rebellion.

"Drugs you say? Have you told any one else this?" Yildirim asks as he rises and steps behind her, "I am going to listen to your breath now by placing my ear upon your back. It is strange, but it works," and then he does as he said, asking her to breathe in and out in deep breaths.

"Yes. I have told Eruphel and Lojrul and ... Nikahti?" She stumbles over the name a little. "And Amestris."

One breath in, out again. Another. Save for being unable to relax, all seems as it should be.

"You seem healthy enough, though frightfully tense." Yildirim pulls away from her and back into his squat, "How do you feel?"

"I can't sleep," Farielle says, as unemotionally as if she tells him of the contents of her sewer-drainage book. "I have nightmares, and I hate it to be dark. And I am not hungry."

"Well, I have a tea that can aid with the sleep. It is sweet and fragrant, certainly more pleasant than what the other girl brings. You have a lamp for your room?" Yildirim asks.

Another smile crosses Farielle's face, lasting a little longer this time. "Several," she says, and almost her eyes twinkle at him. If any expression so light and cheerful could make it past the barrier there. "Lots. I told the guards to bring me as many as they could find, and I think they did not, but I have enough. And I light them all."

She hesitates though at his offer of tea, saying uneasily, "I - " And then stopping, and visibly forcing herself to nod. "Yes... thank you."

"A moment then. Do not leave?" Yildirim asks, standing.

Farielle nods, sitting and watching after him. She doesn't pick up the book again.

Yildirim turns and lightly jogs from the room, making a brief comment to the guards. He is gone for the better part of an hour.

And then, again words with the guards and he steps into the library once more.

Farielle is waiting where he has left her, though she has gotten bored, clearly, and is reading the book again. She looks up, shutting the pages nervously.

He carries a small sack that bounds lightly with each step he takes, "How are the sewers? Rich and inviting?" Yildirim quips as he makes the distance between the two.

"Very," Farielle answers. "And most likely smelly." Her gaze drops to the sack, then lifts to his face.

"So, let us see what we have," and he falls to the ground excitedly, sitting crosslegged in front of her sofa. He pulls from the bag another, smaller sack. Then from it, he shows her a handful of flowers, white with yellow centers like a daisy. "Here smell," he says, offering a single dried stem to her. "Crush this and seep it like a tea. It's quite nice."

Yildirim's enthusiasm brings a smile to Farielle's face again, but she looks more anxious than happy, even as she takes the flower, sniffing it cautiously. "What is it?" she asks him. And then, "It won't make me see things?" Foolish to ask - if it did, would he tell her?

He laughs, "No, no. It is a common tea. Uh... hmm... I do not know the name of it in Westron actually. My mother would give it to me after a bad dream. I would be happy to drink some with you. And," he leans in conspiratorially, "If you see things, let me know. We can sell it for a fair price to the right people."

"Oh!" Farielle looks at the flower again and blushes faintly. "I know it, yes. I - I had forgotten. Eloissel would scold me. It is chamomile." Her eyes fly up to his, uncertainly, and then, as if she has forgotten how, she laughs. And looks startled by the sound.

"And then for the nightmares," he reaches into the bag and pulls from it a simple, rag doll the size of a new born. It is of a simpler design than those of Gondor, and the coloring of its skin is certainly darker. It looks like no little girl of Belfalas. But, it is quite soft, the texture a rough silk.

"This is Hayrunissa. Her name means day dream. And now, she is yours. During the day she is not so powerful, but at night, she has the power to ward off terrible dreams!"

A doubtful look crosses Farielle's face, but she takes the doll, holding it. "If you say so..." She sounds as if she is too polite to contradict him - but is thinking it! Instead, she repeats the name. "Hayrunissa."

"My cousin had one just like it and she claimed it worked for her. I had a blanket instead of a doll for my nightmares." Yildirim coughs into his fist, "Or something."

He stands again, "So, some help, perhaps with your troubles?"

Already, unconsciously, Farielle's arm has curved around the doll. She looks up as he stands, to keep her eyes on his face. "Thank you," she says, sounding a little sheepish. "It makes me feel like a little girl. But if it helps... It can't hurt to try."

"Well, I shall return and see how things are going," Yildirim says, leaving the rest of the sack with the rest of the tea.

"But I am glad to see you seem well. Nisrin was worried about you as well. I will return with books as well."

The swift faint smile returns, and warms her eyes as briefly. "I wish - " she says, and then stops, and shakes her head slightly as if to shake off the words. "She is teaching me to speak some Harad," is what she does say. "And thank you - again. It will be nice to have something to read. I miss our library."

"And if you remember anything else of your capture, please try to remember to tell me. It is quite important."

"Well, I must be on my way for now."

He looks a bit sad to take his leave as well, "Good eve, Farielle. I hope you can find some peace tonight."

Farielle nods. But before he can leave, she says, "Can you tell me - do you know where Lord Alphros was. While those men had me?" She watches him with a strange intensity.

"He asked me specifically to find you. I know he was in the city, but most of my time is in the employ of his sister. Though, he was on the seas for a time as well," he replies.

He waits expectantly, perhaps for an explanation.

A frown draws her eyebrows together. "I saw him," she says at last. "Everyone tells me it cannot be, so it must have been the drugs. But ... " She shakes her head a little, dissatisfied.

"That is all. Thank you." She gives him another small smile, though it does nothing to remove the troubled look from her face. This, she removes herself, wiping her expression blank.

"I cannot say what it was, but I doubt it was him. He was very adamant in me finding you so I think he knew not where you were."

"I am sorry. I am not so good with injuries of the mind so I cannot say what was done."

Of all the responses Farielle has gotten, this is the most convincing. She nods and seems a little reassured. "I do not know either. I would talk to someone only to see them dissolve into mist before my eyes. And things kept changing. That shouldn't, I mean. Like my bed. I never knew what was real and what wasn't, and I have lost my memories. I was there for weeks, they tell me, but I didn't know it." But she shakes her head again. "I am keeping you, and you need to go. I am sorry."

"That you are," Yildirim teases, "But I have a bit more latitude with tardiness than when we last met."

"Regardless, there is much to be done. I am seeking the one that took and hurt you so that he may be brought to justice. If you remember anything that you think would aid me; it would help me and you if we could learn what drugs were used on you and to what purpose."

"I will think," Farielle promises. "But I can't guarantee that anything I remember will be true." She looks a little curious then. "More latitude? You - were you promoted?" she guesses.

"Something like that," he laughs in reply, "Though there is a saying in Harad about escaping a den of jackals by falling into a pit of snakes. I think it looses something in the translation."

"Enjoy your tea and keep a steady hold on Hayrunissa."

"It is like jumping out of the cookpot and landing in the fire." Farielle nods. "That is what Gwaithmir said." She waits until he has gone before returning to her book. The very fascinating study of the construction of sewers. The doll is still in her lap, the small bag of tea tucked carefully beside it.

_It was a fascinating book - if one was interested in sewers. Farielle flipped through the pages resignedly. At least it was something to read. There were even diagrams of the best ways to brace the tunnels if they could not be dug in solid rock and.._

_She turned the page, then froze, and cautiously turned it back. That diagram was not a diagram. It was a map. Farielle stared at it. It couldn't be. Who knew when or by whom the book had been written? That it would be a map of the sewers here - of Umbar - was far too great a coincidence. Still..._

_She bent her head over it, trying to follow the twists and turns of the faint lines. Trying to memorize them. _


	47. Chapter 47

Farielle's room is a blaze of light. Every lamp has been lit, and there are not a few of them. The girl herself is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her head bent over something on the table.

"Farielle, I need your opinion on something." Nisrin is here at the door, and has brought another candle. A bundle is draped over one arm.

"Hmm?" Farielle doesn't look up right away, dabbing a brush at the canvas and then setting it down. But then she smiles. She seems a little more relaxed than before, still tired and her expressions muted, but a little more herself. "What's that?" A glance past at the hallway. "Come in and close the door."

Nisrin obliges, closing the door with a soft click. "It is about clothes," she begins, before eyeing the collection of paints on the table. "Are you busy?"

"No." The smile, faint but there, remains on Farielle's face and she looks at the bundle curiously. "What about clothes?"

"I am considering a change in ... wardrobe," begins the Haradrim girl hesitantly, her nervousness evident in the brightness of the room. "There was this ..." she holds up a black tunic, embroidered stiffly in gold, "and this ..." Another tunic, but of the Farside colors. Notably, the girl is no longer wearing her blue corsair's garb.

Obediently looking between the two, though somewhat bewildered, Farielle asks, "You aren't sure which one? That looks nicer on you than black." She points at the second of the two. "But Nisrin - " Her gaze lifts to meet the other girl's eyes. "Aren't you supposed to wear blue?"

"I like blue, but it clashes so with my skin..." Nisrin runs a hand mock-despairingly over her face, dropping the two outfits on the rug and plopping down beside them. "Farielle, can you keep a secret? At least for a little while?"

A swiftly muffled giggle. "It does not." Then something twists the Gondorian's mouth. "I have no one to tell anything to," she points out. "So yes. I think I can manage." There is something else in her expression, a sort of quietness, a reservation - perhaps she is keeping more secrets than just this one.

"Very well." Nisrin leans in, fidgeting with the stitching on her sleeve.

"Yildirim has given me command of the Arambodh. I am to have a ship, Farielle! But it is a Farside ship..."

Farielle's eyes widen. "You will be - a captain?" she asks, wonderingly. "But - isn't that good?"

A pause. It seemed so long ago - much more than only a month or two. "Farside. But... you are leaving Seaward?" A faint light of pleasure for her friend brightens her eyes. "You will be able to marry him!" she says, almost gleefully.

"Leaving?" Nisrin pauses, as if she has not considered the finality of the statement. "Yes, yes I am. That is why I am so afraid, Farielle. I am not without my ties to this tower, though I have not sworn any oaths. And I have not yet spoken to the Lady Farside to finalize the decision."

"Or to Lady Seaward, or her ... husband."

"But why are you afraid?" It is an innocent question, born of the 19 years of Farielle's life before Harad. The last three and a half months intervene almost before she has finished speaking. "They - they would not hurt you, would they?" she asks, her voice hushed suddenly, and a ghost of fear wavering across her face.

Nisrin says only, her head close to Farielle's and her voice in a whisper, "My brother is not as kind as yours."

Farielle shakes her head, her eyes haunted. She has learned some of what men can do here in this place... "Why are you going then?" she asks at last. "Before - I thought you said you could not. When I gave you the picture."

"I do not know!" The other girl leans back, pulling dejectedly on a curl. "There is no place for me here, not anymore, once Lady Seaward has her child. I would like to think that the Fleet Master Yildirim holds me in his confidence, as no one has before! He said that there are few people to be trusted in Umbar, and I ..." She pauses for breath, then sighs. "It must seem very selfish to you ..."

She has never had to worry about politics before; never been thrust into the middle of them. But Farielle is not stupid, and she hasn't grown up at her father's knee for nothing. A small frown wrinkles her forehead. "Then he will have an heir," she says slowly. "And you..."

"Why? Because you wish to live and be happy? Because you are happy that someone you - like thinks well of you?" A sad smile flickers over the girl's face. "It is what I want, too. If that is selfish, then most men are afflicted with it. Go, Nisrin. If you have the chance, take it." She looks away, the smile slipping. "I ... I will miss you."

In the expression she tries to hide is a little hint of how lonely and purposeless are her days here.

"Will be its aunt," says Nisrin resignedly, "to keep its accounts while it grows and to train its subjects in loyalty and arms."

"I will go," she decides with a rueful smile. "Thank you, Farielle. Is there anything you need? Is the bird all right? If you ever are to be ransomed back to the North," the girl begins awkwardly, "I should like to be your escort..."

Farielle is still for a long time. When she looks up again, her eyes are dry. She looks into the other girl's face for a while longer, fear warring with desire. "You spoke once of your loyalties," she says at last, slowly, tentatively, a question unspoken in her eyes.

"I did," says Nisrin shortly, puzzled by the question. "Is it so difficult to suggest such a thing when an agreement has been reached? I am not talking of anything traitorous!"

Her question has been misunderstood. Farielle lets her eyes drop. "No," she says, expressionlessly. "Never mind. Thank you. I will remember."

"Don't - don't wear the black."

"I won't wear it," the other girl murmurs, looking apologetic. "Farielle, I like you, but we are at war. To do such a thing - openly - is welcoming disaster from both ally and enemy."

"I do not know what Yildirim thinks on the issue. He has said that you would do best back at your home, and I am inclined to agree ..." Nisrin bites her lip, having said too much.

"I did not ask," Farielle says, her voice resigned and dull - and very quiet. She glances towards the door, but it is still shut. And surely the guards can hear nothing through the thick wood.

"Yildirim told me, when - in Caldur, that I could not trust him. He would not help me unless his lord or lady told him to. Please - " Sudden urgency sharpens her tone. "Please do not tell him."

"Will you - No, /can/ you still teach me to speak Haradaic? That is a good thing, is it not? It shows I am resigned to staying here."

"I wonder if the compassion of Lady Azradi might be stirred by your plight," wonders Nisrin softly. "For she is indisposed towards her brother."

"There is a trunk of books in my room that I have kept from my childhood," she says, straightening and smoothing out one of the shirts. "Perhaps you will find use of it, although it is not what is spoken on the streets. If I am allowed ... I will come back and read them with you?"

"I have not seen her," Farielle says carefully.

"Yes, please. I would like that." The Gondorian's face smoothes a little, and she leans forward to touch Nisrin's hand. "Thank you. And congratulations."

"And to once think that friends could be forever," says Nisrin mildly, smiling and clasping Farielle's hand in her own. "I shall have them sent. Thank you, Farielle. Farewell."

Farielle takes Nisrin's hand and squeezes it. "We are friends," she says firmly. "Please come, if you can. I would like to see you again." She watches the other girl leave.

Clutching the clothes close to her chest, Nisrin exits the room.

_Somehow, he was never exactly certain how remembering the exasperating frustration of trying to say, without ever saying, that he was looking for a girl with light eyes like his own, the woman in black - the priestess - had seemed to understand. At least, he hoped she understood. She had led him here, to a wide street, and pointed to a tall tower built of bluish-green stones. _

_Lominzil nodded, smiled, bowed, and squatted down in the corner of a wall across the road. If Farielle was indeed within, he would wait here forever. His eyes roamed over the walls that surrounded the tower - they were taller than a man's height - and settled on the gate. It was guarded by several soldiers. _

_He settled himself a little more comfortably and watched. Perhaps there would be a way in. Or maybe he would see his sister, if she ever came out into the growth he could see between the bars. He would wait._

Seaward Tower: Lord's Library

_Barely able to wait until Nisrin was gone, hardly able to force herself to eat her lunch calmly and as if nothing was different, Farielle at last allowed herself to return to the library. She wandered along the stacks of books, and finally, as if compelled by boredom, took down the slim volume on sewers once more. She must read it more carefully for any hint of where it might refer to. _

_For a second, she wrinkled her nose up at the thought of it - the stench and the filth - and how did you get /into/ them anyways? Slip through the hole in the garder-room? Ugh! But the underlying determination that had been with her since her return from Vain's clutches dismissed all this as immaterial. If she had to, she would. If she could not, she would find another way. If nothing else, she would walk north into the desert until she died. _

_She was not staying in Umbar._

The sun has moved on; past the point where it shines through the windows - but the library is still bright. Farielle has found a couch she likes - she has come there several days now - but she isn't reading anything just at the moment. Rather she is curled up in the couch, leaning her head back and looking out at the sky. A guard or two stand by the door - perhaps not so common for the library.

The guards seem to recognize Alkhaszor, for they let him pass. "Is the Lady Eruphel here?" he asks of them in the common tongue, then directs the same to Farielle with, "Lady Farielle, have you seen her?"

"Ah...well if you see her," Alkhaszor says to her and the guards, "tell her I seek an audience with her and urgently. Though likely I will just impose on her hospitality here." As if to prove it, he flops into a nearby chair. "Improving your mind?" he gestures to the books.

With a glance towards the books, Farielle shrugs slightly. "There aren't many I can read," she says. "That one is about sewer drainage..." She points, wrinkling her nose slightly.

"Sewer drainage?" Alkhaszor says in surprise. "Surely the Lady Eruphel has more books about of a finer nature. I know for a fact she is a student of languages-and I have met her here in her library. I am certain that if you only would ask her she would supply you with something more interesting."

"I have not found them," Farielle says. "But I am sure you are right." She looks at him for a few minutes, then asks, "Did you tell Lord Alphros that I wished to marry him?"

"Wished to?" Alkhaszor laughs. "Nay, Lady, I did not. Why do you ask?"

Her eyes remain on his face, as if she is trying to discern if he speaks the truth or not. "Someone told me that you did; that you knew that was what he wanted to hear and so you lied."

"And who would this someone be that accuses me of lying and why are they too cowardly to tell me to my face?" Alkhaszor bristles.

Farielle hesitates, her eyes unfocusing as she thinks back through her memories. "I cannot tell you," she says at last. "I said that I would tell no one of the things we spoke of."

"I see. But you have no trouble of accusing me of being a liar and yet you will not let me defend myself against my accuser," Alkhaszor says, angry now. "And you pride yourself on being a lady of Gondor and honorable? What honor is there in making accusations under cover of secrecy?

"I did not accuse you of anything. Nor did I say I believed what was spoken. I asked you if those words were true, because you have said you are a man of honor." Farielle doesn't drop her gaze. "You have chosen this land, and know its people. I know no one, nor who I can trust. If this - person lies about one thing, they may lie about others."

"There are only two people who could have overheard what I said to my lord. The woman S'aria or Steward Lojrul. So either they misunderstood what I said to Lord Alphros or else they are lying. You decide," Alkhaszor says.

Farielle nods, her face expressionless. Then she turns the subject. "S'aria said Lord Alphros asked her to be his - envoy to... " She doesn't even want to say the words, making a small motion eastward with her head. And much more intently now does she watch his face - this is of far more importance than whether or not he had lied about her willingness to marry his master.

"Yes, his envoy from the Dark Citadel," Alkhaszor says, smirking just slightly as he watches the woman in turn. "This surprises or troubles you somehow?" he presses.

"Yes," Farielle says flatly. "If you are yet a man of Gondor as you say, you know this. I will kill myself before I will ever ally in any way, be it by marriage or not, with that one."

"Did I say that King Alphros was allied with the Dark Citadel?" Alkhaszor says in a mild tone. "Now you're the one making assumptions."

"Why is he sending envoys?" she asks, not backing down. "What assumption should I make instead?"

"No, you misunderstand. My lord did not send the woman to you. She came of her own accord," Alkhaszor says. "She only asked if she could observe him in his work. In a way..." He shrugs.

Farielle is silent a moment. "What work?" she asks curiously. And then, bluntly, "Is Lord Alphros allied, or seeking to be allied, with the Dark Citadel?"

"My Lady. I do not know the mind of my Lord on every thing and matter,"Alkhaszor says. "And on this particular matter, I know nothing of his mind at all. I am sorry."

"Then I shall ask him myself," Farielle says. She lets the matter go, her manner relaxing somewhat. In a light, inconsequential tone, she asks, "Did you find an embroidery kit, as you said?" And in the same tone, as if it matters equally as much (or little), "Tell me what he is like."

"Embroidery kit...no. Things...came up.." Alkhaszor shrugs. "As for what he is like...he is fair and loyal and noble. I think that if you ask him these things yourself and get to know him, you will be pleasantly surprised."

Farielle nods as if she is unsurprised that Alkhaszor has not brought the embroidering supplies. "Shall you have time?" she asks politely. "I can ask Lady Eruphel." On the matter of Alphros, she is silent longer.

"I have had not opportunity," she says at last. "I have seen him only twice, and on the first occasion, he insulted my kinsmen, and on the second, myself. You will forgive me if I find it difficult to see nobility in these actions." And again, words that could be spoken bitingly are not; there is little expression at all in her face or voice, save mild commentary.

"No, Lady, in fact, I am going to sleep here tonight. Right on this couch, no doubt, for my need to see Lady Eruphel is urgent and my need to procure you an embroidery kit less so," Alkhaszor says. "As for insults, surely not. Surely it was a misunderstanding that can be cleared later."

"Then I shall ask her, and you need not be bothered," Farielle says mildly. Both her eyebrows rise a little at his assertion of misunderstandings. "If you say so."

"Ah...I am afraid you'll have to make do," Alkhaszor says. "What do you need to embroider?"

Farielle frowns a little. "Why? I am sure the Lady will give me this, if I ask her. And," she sounds a little exasperated now, "I cannot /make do/." She lifts both her hands - empty. "With what, exactly, am I to make do? I have no thread, no needle, no cloth. And I do not need to embroider anything. I wish for something to do, aside from staring at the walls of my room!"

"Search the library. Find books that are not about sewer plans. Learn the local language by looking at books if you can. Draw. Talk to servants. Try to learn the language. Surely there are thing sin life other than embroidery," Alkhaszor says flatly. "Ask Lady Eruphel to have a servant teach you the language of Harad."

"I did ask someone to teach me the language," Farielle all but snaps back. "And I have paints. And I have been reading. What do you suddenly have against my wishing to embroider also? I /like/ to."

"What is the urgency for embroidery I cannot even say if Umbar has such things," Alkhaszor shrugs. "If I have a moment to wander in the market, I will look for a kit for you. But I doubt it is sold here."

"I have said you need not bother. I only asked if you had, because you said that you would find one for me, and I wondered if you had been successful. Please do not trouble yourself." Farielle uncoils herself from the couch. "Excuse me," she says, coldly, and marches towards the door.

Alkhaszor watches impassively, then stretches out his long legs in front of him and settles in for a wait.


	48. Chapter 48

_They came to her room in the morning, and began to pack her things together. Farielle tried to protest, but was ignored. The dresses were packed - her paints were not. The servants barely looked at her, and as soon as they had a bag full of whatever they felt was necessary, they left, carrying it. Farielle watched them go. _

_Where were they going? And why? And... what was she supposed to do? They had taken most of her clothes - not that she had so many - but none of her other belongings. Perhaps - her stomach started to churn painfully, and she forced the thought away, clasping her hands tightly together. She was still standing there staring at the door when it opened again and Alkhaszor came in. _

_"Come," he said abruptly, holding the door for her. _

_"Where?" she asked, trying not to let her fear show in her voice. She failed, she could tell, by the sneer that crossed his face._

_"It doesn't matter. Come."_

_"Lady Eruphel," she began, but he shook his head impatiently._

_"She knows. I have left her a message. She intended to come, but has not returned. We cannot wait." His voice was curt, his gesture towards the door imperious. _

_Farielle took a deep breath and then turned and hurriedly snatched Hayrunissa up from the bed, ignoring the scornful look on the man's face. _

_She followed him down the stairs to the main door, where he paused and looked at her, frowning. "Put on your cloak," he told her at last. "And pull up the hood."_

_Silently, she obeyed, and they left the tower grounds. The great gates were pushed open for them to pass. Alkhaszor walked in silence, matching his steps to hers - she still tired quickly and easily. But it wasn't until they reached the harbor and he gestured her pre-emptorily aboard a ship, that she faltered. "Where are we going?" she asked again. He didn't answer._

_She dared not hope._

Hall of Windows

The Hall of Windows spreads wide and spaceful around you. The tall, intensely ornamented sandstone walls ascend above you to the marbled circular dome that is decorated with a beautiful fresco depicting a series of naval encounters and dominated in the middle by a tall, proud black-sailed ship. From the smooth, reflecting red-hued marble floor, four columns ascend to support the ceiling and the dome. In both ends of the Hall are arched vaults under which are double doors made of dark teakwood, their arched frames embroidered with gold.

The six large windows from which the Hall has gotten its name are on the northern and southern walls of the Hall, two on the northern and four on the southern. In the middle of the northern wall is the widest of all doorways leading out from the Hall; the wide doors leading to the inner courtyard are almost never closed.

The Hall is furnished sparingly. In the middle is a low, rather small table, hand-crafted from the finest ivory. Next to it are several large, soft silk cushions, and a low marble pedestal upon which is set a golden chalice always filled with water. Another pedestal, about the height of a man's waist, is placed before one of the northern windows, and on the pedestal rests the Black Book of Corsairs.

In the bright daylight hours, the sunlight blazes in to the Hall of Windows, sparkling on the fine marble floor and reflecting up to the dome that recounts the stories of many adventures. Beyond the northern windows, the courtyard is tranquil, the fountain in its centre flowing quietly and comfortably.

This ancient manor has had many Lords. Lominakh, the Seaward tyrant and opponent of the Emperor. Khazamr, most famous of all Corsairs. And on and on into the past; a host of legends.

Now another has taken up residence, and it seems his touch might be softer. Walls that in the past were stained with blood and mounted with the heads of enemies have been cleaned and set with tapestries. The famed Black Book of Corsairs remains upon its pedestal, and the sun shines through tall curtained windows.

A wooden throne has been set upon a dais at the far end of the manor's main hall. And upon it sits Alphros, musing. A pair of guards stand at the door, and servants and others pass hither and thither.

Servants scurry out of the way and the two door guards come to attention as a column of guards, 10 in all, dressed in the livery of Heron and Tree, enter. They walk crisply, alert even here, surrounding one not in livery, in their center-the woman Farielle. The guards come to a halt, moving out so that they no longer completley surround Farielee, but instead let her see Alphros on his throne ahead of them.

From the group, Alkhaszor steps forward, bowing deeply, rising, hand over his heart. "My liege. The Lady Farielle, as you commanded."

Farielle is silent. Her eyes dart around the room, then come to fix on Alphros, a wary watchfulness in them, but little else. She is very thin still, much more so than when he saw her last, and there are shadows under her eyes - as if from prolonged sleeplessness.

The King-Claimant's gaze lifts as the pair approach, and he a faint smile he inclines his head in a nod of greeting. "Alkhaszor... Well done, once again you have carried out your orders to the letter." His unseen gaze strays to the Gondorian woman and he adds: "Lady Farielle... I am pleased that you have not come to harm and are returned to us. Welcome to Gimilzain."

"Sire." Alkhaszor's gaze shifts briefly to Farielle, then back to Alphros. "I hope that I may still be of use in this..." he hesitates, "matter."

The veil. Fari flinches visibly when her eyes land on Alphros' 'face', and she swallows and looks away, her breath coming more swiftly and her hands clenching slowly into fists at her sides.

Standing besides Farielle is the young Priestess, standing as straight as an arrow with her head bowed gently, hands folded before her skirts. The girl keeps her eyes lowered to the finely wrought floor, S'aria having kept her silence for most of the time. "I thank you for... bringing my along, my lord. I know you and I have just met... yet you have showered me with such courtesy. It is my hope I may assist you as well," she says with reverence in her voice, before her eyes flicker briefly to Farielle, a shadow of fear and worry in their dark depths.

There is something vaguely beatific in the way Alphros looks on Farielle, ere the Acolyte of the Dark Citadel speaks and he looks to her. "You need say nothing of it, S'aria. In fact, your presence here is most pertinent, as there is to be a wedding, and a wedding needs a legally celebrant, does it not?"

But first, the King-Claimant's eyes drift back to Alkhaszor. "Yet before we speak of that... Alkhaszor, you have served me well, whether in Umbar and Gondor, and for this I will reward you ere your duties once more carry you away." The King-Claimant stands, drawing forth his wicked southern-wrought blade. "Kneel."

S'aria's voice brings Farielle's head back up with a start, and something else comes into her face then, a sort of desperately determined hardness. She still very evidently refuses to look at Alphros's face; her gaze, when it wanders his direction, never lifting above his shoulders.

Alkhaszor speaks in a lyrical language, the words too soft for Farielle to comprehend, but sounds deeply concerned. His protests, though, trail off-for a moment Alkhaszor stares in surprise. Then he kneels, silently.

The Easterling's dark eyes flash with realization, her olive-hued face turning quite rapidly back towards the would-be king. She replies with a formal salute, a fist coming to her chest as she bows forward deeply, "It would be my honor, sire," she says, her voice ringing confidently out through the hall until Alphros addresses his Knight and she returns to reverential silence. Her dark gaze, however, seems to be watching the pale-skinned woman out of the corner of her eyes, observing her features with quiet interest.

"Yes, I do," Alphros answers with a smile, though there is something much too cryptic in the way he says it, something that suggests not all is quite as it seems. "But first, you... Alkhaszor. You have served me well, and so I deem your time as a squire of our new, glorious order is done... Kneel a Black Squire, but arise a Knight of your King."

And with that, a simple tap on the shoulder; a dark mimicry of the Gondorian way, except that the tip of the scimitar catches Alkhaszor upon the cheek - "So you will remember this," explains the King-Claimant - and the knighting is done. Alphros turns and walks back up to his throne. "And now, Farielle..."

"My liege, I am deeply honored," Alkhaszor says, the blood tricking down his cheek. Still kneeling, he bows his head, hand over his heart and stays that way in a moment of reverence before rising. He does not wipe the blood away.

The knighting ceremony goes on and finishes, but the Gondorian girl seems barely aware of it. She is very tense, and trembling faintly.

"Will - will you take that off, please?" Farielle asks, her voice high and thin with distress. She edges a half step away from S'aria, and never looks away from the middle of Alphros' chest. Her face is very white.

Alphros ignores her request. Instead, he asks a simple question: "Farielle of Gondor... You do want to marry me, do you?"

The Priestess of the Eye remains quiet, noting the step away from her with a purse of her lips. She straightens up enough to look between the two of them, her dark eyes darting between the two very different looking individuals - pale, frail Gondorian Princess and the dark-haired King Claimant.

Alkhaszor smiles just the smallest bit, the corners of his eyes crinkling up-first at Farielle's demand, then at Alphros paying it no heed. And still this same expression holds as he awaits Farielle's answer.

Her breath is coming faster and lighter, nails digging into her palms. Shaking visibly now, memories clashing in her blue-grey eyes. "No," she says. And again, "No... " Almost it sounds like she answers someone else. But she hasn't lost herself yet, despite the assault on her mind. And with an attempt to ground herself in the present, she asks, "What have you done to give me any desire to marry you? Even the most smallest kindnesses seem be-beyond you."

"If that is how you feel, Farielle... Then I am going to show you the first of these kindnesses."

The veiled King-Claimant ruminates for a moment. "I am not going to marry you."

The new-made Knight looks relieved: That is, Alkhaszor lets out an almost imperceptible sigh and his shoulders relax ever so slightly. He looks to Alphros but does not yet ask whatever question is upon his lips.

At Farielle's words, S'aria takes a tenative step forward, saying, "Lord Alphros, if I...", before the veiled-man speaks and her eyes go wide with suprise, the Easterling looking dumbfounded for a moment. Quickly though she regains her composore, her stern, dark eyes returning to the pair before her. "Well then I suppose my services will not be needed tonight...", she remarks.

"I don't even know you," Farielle continues, and then her eyes fly in shock to the man's face. "You won't?" A bottomless relief flashes across her face - but then it is consumed by darkness. A black room and a veiled man... Her eyes widen, staring but not seeing.

Then with a gasping indrawn breath, Farielle jerks her gaze away to stare at the floor. A little drop of blood falls from one clenched hand; the nails having dug through skin. "Please, sir," she says, making an effort to keep her voice steady. "Let me go home."

"You are home, Farielle," Alphros answers as his gaze sweeps back to S'aria. "Your services are still needed, priestess. I did not bring Lady Farielle here to marry me. Indeed, I brought her here to marry Alkhaszor. A noble match, don't you think?"

.

"WHAT?" Alkhaszor nearly explodes in surprise-or is it anger? "My lord...with all due respect, I beg you." He glances to Farielle, glaring at her. "I would give voice to my objections, but not in open court."

A wry smile twists across S'aria's lips at Alphros' words, a chuckle flowing from deep within the priestess. "Well, then... it sees the ladies of Umbar will still be able to swoon for your excellencies hand, or at least a bachelor's favor." If she is suprised she gives nothing to show for it, though there is much amusement in her dark eyes, and something more, she seems to be quite impressed by the veiled-man. "The ceremonry requires blood of both participants. I fear... it will be a little difficult to collect if they both are unwilling."

"Him?" Farielle says with loahting. She is just as shocked as Alkhaszor - and just as unwilling. But something else takes precedence. She stares at S'aria, and then says flatly, swinging her gaze back to Alphros' chest regions. "I will not give blood to that priestess for any reason. Ever."

S'aria's eyes are cold and without compassion as Farielle's gaze meets her own, an endless sea of darkest shadows. Her expression however, is far more animated, that impressed smirk lingering on her lips. She inclines her head towards the man, her smile only growing. "And here I was about to protest that it was beneath your dignity to force one to marry you, my lord. And here you have founda way to preserve both dignity and your reputation in the eyes of all Umbar. I must say, your wisdom has impressed this meek follower of the dark one..." she says dipping in a bow so deep, her dark bangs touching the floor.

She gives Farielle a brief glance, but otherwise there is no hesitation in the words the come next. "If you make this request of me, my lord. I have no choice but to accept. There are occasions when the laws can be suspended, especially due to the formidable demands of politics." A smile, wicked and delighted at once, crosses her features as she gives him a salute, "So I shall accept, Lord Alphros." And then she turns, seeking out the nearest servant one hand lashing out, as her voice rings throughout the hall. "Bring me the finest goblet in your lord's possession!" Sending the man promptly scurrying off.

Eyes blazing, Alkhaszor stares hard at Alphros, then turns the same look at Farielle. "I was wed, I have an heir. And only one heir will I ever have. But if you order it, so be it. I will obey. As for the lands of the Bragollach and Girithlin, this woman...would be a small price."

Farielle lifts her eyes, glaring back. She totally ignores S'aria - the girl's perfidy is no surprise to her, though perhaps there is a little sadness for her. "I will not marry you," she says. "I can do nothing against your - lord," she spits the word disdainfully, "if he chooses to force me. But I will never consent to wed you. And I see what your claims of honor are worth, if you will take a woman against her will."

Alphros dips his head in thanks to S'aria. As the priestess attends to the preparations, he answers Alkhaszor: "Do not think me ungrateful, Alkhaszor. In fact, I will see to it with all my resources that your heir is liberated from the Farside Tower."

But as for Farielle? The Gondorian woman could scream and set off fireworks, for all that it would do to ruffle the King-Claimant's unphased mien. "Sometimes, the brute hand of force is necessary for the greater good. The greatest of all kings, Ar-Pharazon, married Miriel did he not? You will marry Alkhaszor anAlkhaszor, as I have decreed, Farielle of Gondor. I know that you will never comprehend the boundless and unseen kindnesses I have done you - the horrors that you might have otherwise faced in Umbar had you fallen into other hands," he glances at S'aria with a humourless smile; the sacrificial pits of the Dark Citadel are far from rumour. "And I shall you reward you with suitable honour. You will serve as the Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen Mother; I think she will enjoy the company of a fellow Gondorian after so many years. And though mother is the dead of my household, I am appointing you Chamberlain to see to its daily running; a duty you will excel at, I am sure."

A servant returns, bearing an ornate chalice; a relic of ancient Numenor.

"You may proceed, S'aria," Alphros says.

"Hold your tongue, woman," Alkhaszor snaps angrily. "Did I not just say I have only one heir and only ever will? We will be married in name only. In fact, my liege, I would ask that if I am to be married to this woman," he does not even look at Farielle, "then she receive proper training at competent hands so that she is used to the ways of Umbar and its people. I will not have her carry my name and disgrace me with her...ignorance."

"And you said that you did not wish to repeat his errors," Farielle throws back at Alphros. "I see also what your word and honor are worth. You will never be king in Gondor. You are not fit." For all her youth, for all the fire of anger rising in her blood now, there is nothing in her voice of this. Only the simple pronouncement. The judgment of one in whose blood runs the blood of elves and of Numenor. He may dismiss it if he likes, as the ranting of a woman; most likely he will. Her eyes flick towards Alkhaszor - still filled with the same disdain.

The King-Claimant smiles slightly at Alkhaszor's words; perhaps the Gondorian man's feisty manner pleases him? "I shall see to her training myself, Alkhaszor, as shall S'aria, if she is still willing to be of assistance to me."

His eyes drift back to Farielle. "I have tolerated many crass words from you, Lady, but I pray... Do not act as if you know ought of me. You do not. Nothing. I am more fit than you know; the paths of wisdom that I have walked range far beyond the ken of your ilk, enslaved by your petty Lords as you are! I bring you freedom! No accept it and be wedded with dignity, as is your blood right." The King-Claimant nods to S'aria, falling silent.

A fine golden goblet is brought into S'aria's hands, and the Easterlings steps forward first to Alkhazor. There is something strange in her willful eyes, a deep unholy tranquility - as if the stuff of life has been snuffed out of her gaze, leaving something thoroughly inhuman in its place. Yet she speaks with her own voice, moving with flawless and confidence and grace. She lowers the golden goblet, clasped between both of her hands for him to see, her gaze meeting the man's own. "Please extend your left hand, sir-knight, palm up. You will contribute it yourself, I hope?", she asks with a tilt of her head before she turns her head, midnight bangs fluttering with the rapid movement to look to Farielle. "I assume she will be difficult... Have one of the guards hold the arm out and I will do the honor's myself," she orders the guard, a slight smile of amusement playing across her features.

"Let this be a lesson in politics for you, Lady Farielle. So consumed were you with your own self-pity that you failed to see what was inevitable. If by no other authority, than the natural authority of wisdom... Lord Alphros has shown himself to be fit for a king. He conducts himself like a noble man, with the silver-tongue of a scholar, and the wisdom of a High-Priest. Whereas you? Sulking month after month like a child... And you question who is fit to rule?", she says with quiet pity as she gathers the required fluids.

"I will not," Alkhaszor says, his eyes steady as they meet S'aria's. "I will not give my blood in marriage to this woman. This is a marriage in name only, not a sacred bond. There will be no union of souls. And no blood. I have been married once-I have made my vows in blood to that woman, and though she is dead, this one here.." he jerks his head toward Farielle, "will not replace her. My -wife-" he emphasizes, "willingly and gladly came with me to Umbar, willingly and with joy gave her vows to King Alphros. -She- was a true woman of Gondor. Not this...this insult to my heritage, as Farielle is."

Farielle doesn't bother to respond, crossing her arms and holding her head high, her eyes filled with contempt.

"Forgo your blood price, S'aria," Alphros says with a faint frown. "I shall write a missive commending your fervour to the High Priestess herself, but this is to be a marriage of the Law, and naught else."

"You meant without blood, my lord? Forgive me... I assume you meant without consent," notes the Priestess with a slight frown. With a bemused chuckle she takes a bottle of wine from a nearby servant and pours it into the cup, "The ceremony requires blood mixed with wine. And so without blood, I suppose it will be just wine." Swirling the contents with one hand, her dark eyes dart between the unwilling bride and groom once before gripping the goblet with both hands she hoists it high into the air, turning to face the direction of mordor. "May the Dark Lord of Mordor upon his throne look down at this simple wedding ceremony and find itfit in his eyes. May He fill you both with his dark spirit so that you will know everlasting pleasure and endless blessings. And May he grant you strong, wise, and fit progency until your heart is content. And at last, may he through his dark favor see your ambitious brought to fruition. Now, if either of you dare break this blessed union, may he strike you dead..." She turns back to them, a dark, cruel smile gracing her lips as she steps towards both of them, offering the cup of wine with one hand as she chuckles, "In the name of our Dark Master, I know pronounce you man and wife." And then without a word, she turns the cup and lets the wine spill across the floor.

Alphros watches as it is done. And then he says in Sindarin: "Forgive me, Alkhaszor. I would not have had an emissary of the Dark Citadel pollute this more than it is... But some things are necessary."

By no word or flicker of an eye does Farielle give any validity to this farce of a marriage. She cannot stop the priestess from saying the words. She cannot bodily remove herself from the location. But she will not acknowledge it. She stares, arms still crossed, into the air at nothing.

'So be it,' Alkhaszor says, nodding to S'aria and then looking to Farielle. 'And now you are my wife and thus under my command.'

He looks to Alphros, nodding slowly. "Sindarin Some things are necessary, my lord. And I am wondering if having this vile woman trained by her," he gestures to S'aria, "would meet with your approval? Perhaps the Dark Citadel and worship to its lord can knock some sense into her."

Alphros rises from his throne and steps down from the dias. 'My thanks, priestess. As a Lord of Umbar and the King of Gondor, I seal this union in the Law.'

The King-Claimant looks to Alkhaszor. "Sindarin This is a fair request... I will see that it is done." Then to husband-and-wife, in Westron once more: 'You are now Lord anAlkhaszor and Lady anAlkhaszor... Honour to you, greatest among the nobility of Gondor. You,' he looks to the husband, 'Have already received my gift; the Zagaragan, that lies waiting for you in the harbour. You,' he looks to Farielle, 'Shall receive my bounty as well.'

Alphros pages: Sindarin This is a fair request... I will see that it is done.

There is no response to this either. For all intents and purposes, Farielle is not there.

The darkly clad Priestess gives Alphros one final sweeping bow, her graceful movements almost dance-like as she slowly retreats from his throne. "It is done," is all she says softly, her words but a hushed whisper before she returns to the edge of the room. Still gripping the fine goblet in both hands, she looks with an attentive gaze between the two newly-weds, her lips pursed slightly. The puddle of blood-red wine remains in the middle of the audience chamber like a gaping-wound.

"My thanks, my lord, and thanks, also, from my lady wife, though at the moment she is rather too indisposed to give proper thanks. With your help and the blessings of the gods, this will be remedied, and I thank you for seeing to it," Alkhaszor grabs for Farielle's wrist, and as he bows, he gives her a strong tug to try to get her to do the same."My thanks and gratitude, also, to Lady S'aria."

Alkhaszor's fingers bite into Farielle's wrist, yanking her off-balance. And surely leaving bruises. She does not bow, though she does bob about rather, trying not to fall over from the sudden pull.

A smile weaves onto S'aria's face at Alkhaszor's words, the young Easterling dipping her head forward in a nod of recognition. "It was my pleasure, sir Knight. I never imagined my first public union would between you and the Lady Farielle," she says with a soft chuckle.

Alphros answers the bow and the bob with a deep incline in his head. "Honour to you," he says. "As affairs here at Gimilzain are not yet complete, I ask that you take your Lady wife back to Umbar, to Seaward. The familiar surroundings may do her some good. I will send a missive with you, asking that Lady Eruphel continue her hospitality... this time as a guest rather than a prisoner. Though naturally, some security will be necessary, which I shall provide."

The King-Claimant gestures to S'aria. "The Acolyte has offered her services to me, and Alkhaszor has requested them. So, if you are willing S'aria, I ask that you visit Lady Farielle and instruct her in the lores that you possess. In return, I shall continue to commend you to the High Priestess."

Then he looks back to Alkhaszor. "I shall send you word as soon as I am able, when we are ready to move here, Alkhaszor. In the meantime, I shall attend to the matter of your son. You may go, if that is your wish... Though I ask that you allow your Lady wife to linger for a moment, so that I can grant her my boon."

"I will stay and listen, lord," Alkhaszor says simply. "Thank you."

Suddenly looking slightly embarassed, the Easterling Priestess starts to show her age as she looks to the floor, her olive-hued cheeks taking a rosy-hue. "I shall... certainly try to teach her if that is your desire, Lord," speaks the girl as she looks up, for the first time looking guilty as she glances sideways to Farielle, the girl rubbing her arm a little. There is humanity in her features now, for it was easy to hide such feelings during the ceremony, but now forced to address the matter directly such is not the case. "However, I fear the Lady Farielle may... hold my accepting your request to perform the marriage-ceremony against me. It was my desire to become her friend, but now I fear that it an impossibility. I cannot say how cooperative she will be from now on with me," she says with a hurried whisper. "Though I certainly still desire to be of service to you."

The Gondorian, having caught her balance, continues to stare into nothingness. There is no expression on her face; and none in her eyes. If anyone here had seen her shortly after she was recovered from Vain and his men, they might find something familiar.

"I understand your concerns, S'aria, and so you must exercise patience... Something that I realise the Dark Citadel, preeminent as it is, does not always have to call on. You must be patient with her, as I have, and as she has with us." This is said with a slight twisting of his lips; Alphros steps to one side and gestures to a servant, who disappears.

"I must go to make my plans, but first, Lady Farielle, as I have promised..." The servant returns, with three companions. "You are a true Lady now, and so should be attended thusly. I am giving your own maids, and a guardsman as is appropriate." If he observes her strange mood, he says nothing.

The three summoned folks step forward; two women, a younger Harondorian and a slightly older Umbarian, and a middle-aged Umbarean soldier. "Hikalla, Leena, and Tariq... They served me well in Farside, and in the years between, and now they are yours."

This requires no comment. Farielle has been a Lady from her birth.

S'aria glances to Farielle, a very sad look in her eyes before she looks back to the throned Lord and gives him a hurried nod, "I shall do as you say then, my lord. And I thank you for your commendations to the Dark Citadel... I fear I have been kept back from advancing due to my relative and so your recommendations does much to dispel the illusions of my older superiors," she says with a bit of her usual confidence returning albeit slowly. Her eyes flicker to the new guards, "My, my... what a fine entourage. No Priestess gets such honors, save her eminence herself."

Alphros dips his head. "I trust that you will both have a safe voyage back to Gondor." He inclines his head again to S'aria, and then with a glance for Farielle, disappears into the shadows of the hall.

Silence reigns between the two, Priestess and Princess, the shadows of night seeming to engulf all sound between them as Aphros' servants and soldiers guide them into a waiting room while the boats are prepared. The newly appointed guards are there as well, keeping watch over the two with quiet, bored gazes. Yet S'aria appears far from normal, she is constantly glancing to Farielle, her large eyes looking wider and wider, glistening with a thin sheen of moisture. She seems far from the graceful, confident Priestess of Sauron she was in the hall, and much more a child struggling to fight back tears. Finally, she breaks the silence, one hand tightening into a fist at her side, the girl turning her face away from the Gondorian, "I... had to do it, you know! I... told you this was going to happen... I was right, wasn't I? Maybe not in the details... but in the generalities at least!'

Farielle looks at S'aria, and then away, and makes no response. Indeed, she acts as if she is an automaton. If someone moves her, she does not resist. But she makes no movement on her own, and she speaks to no one. Whatever of emotion she may feel is locked away deep inside. Shock, perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.

A slender, tan-skinned hand lifts to the young Priestess' cheeks, glittering tear-drops bespeckling her cheeks as she looks at the pale-woman - her bottom lip wavering. Its as if it has only just dawned on her what she just did, but that cannot be possible, right? "Farielle... I... please, say something. Everything isn't over... I... I am sorry, you know that right? I did not want to..." She seems to be just stammering at this point, and quickly steps over and reaches for Farielle's arm. If given the opportunity, Farielle will find that she is not trying to hold her hand, but get a look at her wounded palm. "Did... did he do something to you when he asked you to marry him? It looked like... something unnatural was happening," she says without looking up at the other's face, sniffing a little bit.

Farielle's hand lifts limply, the fingers curling open as S'aria looks. The girl herself remains as withdrawn as ever. It is not as if she is deliberately ignoring S'aria specifically however, but as if she removes her inner self for safety. Last time, it was to survive torture.

On the palm - on both palms, if S'aria checks - is an arc of small wounds where Farielle's fingernails had dug into flesh and drawn blood.

S'aria produces a jar from her satchel, a paste which she applies to the injury. It numbs the pain almost immediately. For a moment, it seems the girl is managing to calm herself of her guilt through this process, carefully apply a bandage to Farielle's hand before she ties it off neatly just above the thumb - a few tears dribbling across the bandage. Whether or not the silence is to torture her, it seems to be doing so, for when she looks up again, tears are streaming down her face. She looks up into those lifeless eyes, her own trembling, "Come... come on Fari... be angry... anything but this. Hit me... please, if you can hear me and your people truly practice mercy... hit me... that would strike these foolish emotions from my heart," she says pleedingly, even going so far as to lift the now bandaged hand up to her face, wiping a tear-studded cheek against it.

Something must be going through Farielle's mind, for a faint expression does surface in her eyes - though it doesn't seem to be in response to anything S'aria has said. But the Gondorian girl looks sick - as if someone has punched her in the stomach. She makes a faint motion - still entirely divorced from the easterling's actions - rather as if she pushes something away from her, something unseen. Then she looks around the room, blindly at first, but slowly coming into focus. The guards. Scurrying servants of this place. Her maids, who are bringing her few belongings... Farielle's gaze fixes on the bundles. Yes. There is the doll.

Those tearful black eyes follow the pale-skinned girl's each movement, as if searching for some emotion she might miss if she looks away for but a moment. "Come on... I know you want to. Be angry! Take it out on me... they used to beat me back in Nurn... almost every day. I can take it," she pleads desperately, her tears continuing to fall in a steady rain. Yet even she seems to realize the futility, and without even waiting for a reply she hurries over towards the particular bundle Farielle is looking at, so very eager to please it seems. "What... what is it? Your old dress?", she questions taking one of the baskets from the servant-girl and carrying it back to Farielle, "Do you want to change?"

And now Farielle does hear the words S'aria is speaking, for she turns her head a little towards the other girl, though she still stares as if nothing the easterling says makes sense. She ignores the dress.

As if in a panic, S'aria starts to throw things out of the bundle one after the other, trying to find what it is Farielle wants. It might amuse the servants to see a Priestess behaving so much like an eager-to-please handmaiden but she finally finds the doll, holding it up as she sniffs at the older girl, "T-this? Is this what you want, Fari? I... don't even have my old one..."

Single-mindedly, Fariell reaches for the doll, patting it all over like a child checking her baby for injuries. There is a strange order to the way she touches it - but everything she is doing just now is strange. Content, she holds it in her arms, and reverts to stillness.

The young Priestess blinks at this, not seeming to comprehend what Farielle is doing as she starts to take care of the doll. She passes the bundle of belongings back off to Farielle's servant, pushing to her feet as she watches other woman's strange behavior. Stubborn even in self-pity, the teenager grabs a hold of the Gondorian's blouse sleeve, giving it a tug. "Come... on. Do not be like this... You were getting so much better. I... I can help you make it right. I will make it up to you somehow, I swear." She gives her dark head a shake, her tears still coming though more calmly now as she mutters, "By the spirits, how did I do such a thing?"

Perhaps Farielle thinks S'aria means to take the doll when she pulls at her sleeve, for she jerks back, cuddling the toy defensively close.

The guards look at each other expressionlessly; the maids watch as if they don't know quite what to think. The older one is more impassive; the younger has an expression of open pity on her face.

"Fari... You are not a child! You are older than me by two years!", S'aria protests with growing weakness, her wet eyes full of guilt and pain as she looks at the other woman behave in this manner. Swallowing, she finally steps back, letting go of Farielle's sleeve as she sees the futility. Her expression hardens and she crosses her arms, attempting to be angry herself now but it seems all to obviously an act. "Are you not a Gondorian Princess? A proud heir to the throne of your nation? You should behave like it!"

The Gondorian girl's eyes move to S'aria and then away, uncaring. What does it matter what she calls her? What she thinks? Farielle saw and heard her actions of earlier - and her delight in them, the coldness and the hardness. The gloating. None of this matters. She holds the doll tightly, and waits.

And it is that look that seems to break S'aria's heart as deserving of such punishment as she may be. Her eyes grow wide, and those useless tears surge forth again, her fingers trying to futiley wipe them away from her face but at least a few end up dribbling off of her chin. "I am sorry... I am sorry...", she blubbers, "I... didn't mean for it to be like this, I wanted to help you... honestly. I wanted to help you get back home. I wanted to prove you were wrong about me that we..."she simply gives a shake of her head, letting her words trail off, hot tears scattering through the air. She then simply buries her face in her arm, one moves away, finding corner out of the way with some cushions where she can cry it out, and perhaps even linger in thought over that dark spectre that tugged her into this position in the first place - her own ambition.

The maids shift uneasily, and the younger one, clearly unable to bear S'aria's weeping, hurries over to try and comfort her. The older one merely sniffs. Any servant of Sauron deserves whatever she gets, in her very obvious opinion.

_Farielle was very cold. She clutched the doll and thought numbly that it was well she had brought it. And the seeds she had sewn inside - the crumpled, dried flowers and leaves. S'aria's words eddied around her, but she ignored them. She should have known; should never have even partly trusted one of /his/ servants. At least she had the seeds. As soon as she was alone, she would pick out the stitches and eat them. It would be quick._

_She shivered, feeling sick, as she remembered that terrible, evil ceremony. Married... in the name of Sauron. With the blessing of his priestess. To a man who thought nothing of forcing her still more into their company - who expected her to /learn/ from them. Who hated her. Learn what? she wondered, then shrugged mentally. It didn't matter. She would be dead. _


	49. Chapter 49

_Rath Sangahyando - A Street in Umbar_

_The glistening black Rath Sangahyando cuts through the western edge of Umbar. A high wall of blueish stone lines the west side of the street. A tall tower rises behind the wall, amid a lush green garden. An ornate silver coloured gate punctuates the wall's midpoint. The gate is closed._

_Lominzil stared down the street. He felt almost numb - despite his brave words to himself, he had not truly expected to find his sister; not so soon, not so easily. He settled cautiously back into the corner of wall, and stared blindly down the street. Where had they been taking her? He didn't know; had no way of knowing. He didn't dare to follow; he would have to wait and hope they brought her back. Perhaps, when they did, he could find some way of letting her know he was here._

_He didn't dare to allow himself to think that they might not bring her here again. That they might be taking her somewhere else - permanently._

_..._

_Has it been a day? Two? Three? Or more... Farielle wasn't sure. She was still in shock; stunned by the abrupt change of her life. Again. And with no time yet alone, she has not had a chance to pick the poisonous seeds out of her doll. They watch her, always. But sometime, she promised her self. Soon. She would force herself to stay awake; the women must sleep sometime. _

_She walked through the streets of Umbar in a daze, staring at nothing and seeming to see no one, surrounded by watchful guards. _

Umbar in February is cool and dry, even in midday. The black Rath Sangahyando is smooth and glossy, huddled tight with people travelling to and fro.

A ragged figure reclines on the side of the road, seeming much like a discarded bundle of sorts. A little chipped bowl with a few coins sits before him, and his pale, silver-like eyes - the only thing alive in his dark, dusty face - sleeplessly watch the silver gates of Seaward.

The marching boots drum on the road, coming from the harbors towards the Tower. The road clears before them; people pushing against each other to get out of the way. The slight figure of the Gondorian woman in their midst is cloaked and veiled - the cloth wrapped loosely about her face, leaving her eyes unobscured. Her pale blue-grey eyes; twins to those of the beggar that she doesn't see. The beggar who doesn't move out of the way as the cortege approaches.

One of the guards snarls something in Haradaic, aiming a kick at the ragged man.

It connects soundly with the beggar's thin ribs, drawing from him a dumb yelp of pain and incomprehension. 'Batsai', as he is known by some, scuttles off to the side of the road, hugging his begging bowl and making placating gestures with his rag-wrapped hands and hooded head.

Subtle, however, is his glance to the mostly covered woman: a bitter smile and a flicker of the hooded blue eyes, looking away.

A cry of pain. From somewhere very far away, Farielle hears it and looks around - and stumbles, almost falling. The guard nearest her steadies her, matter-of-factly, but not without respect.

Eyes wide with shock fix on the beggar's face - his eyes... Even as the guards beside her urge her on, she turns her head to look over her shoulder, searching for the thin, dirty form. "It's just a beggar," says her guard dismissively. "You'll see plenty of those, my lady."

Batsai is standing by the road. Stretched to his full height, he is taller than any on the street, shoulders squared in warrior's stance. He does not move, but merely raises his hand, bound in rags, to the woman - as if at the swearing of an oath.

Then he sits down and is against lost from sight.

Even through the guards that surround her, Farielle finds the man; her eyes drawn to him as iron to a lodestone. She watches a moment longer, then turns away, dropping her gaze to the streets. It is as if a dam has broken, and all her thoughts rush into her mind; pushing away the frantic, desperate repetitions that have claimed her until now.

"Many?" she asks, as if horrified. And "Give him a coin," she says, twisting her face - even though unseen through the veil - into an expression of distress and sympathy. "The poor man!"

"My lady," says the guard, patiently. "You cannot feed every beggar in Umbar! They are gutterscum, beneath your notice. They could work, if they wanted to - they are just lazy and live off of the blood of their betters. Leeches!" He spits.

But Farielle insists, and at last, grudgingly, the man obeys, striding back to drop a copper into the beggar's bowl and to say to him roughly, in Haradaic, 'Be off with you! This is no place for your kind!'

Beaming at the woman's guard, Batsai puts his hands together and bows, his expression saying what words - for mute and deaf is this beggar - cannot.

The guard rolls his eyes. "OFF!" he says loudly. "GO!" As if saying the words louder will make them heard. He stabs the air with his finger, pointing down the road away from Seaward Tower, then half-draws his sword menacingly.

Batsai - or, perhaps, Lominzil Girithlin is his true name - emits a frightened whimper and skulks into the crowd, tossing back fearful glances at the guard's sword.

_It couldn't be! Not here! Farielle looked over her shoulder again, but the beggar was gone. Lomin? But how... Her fingers clenched around the doll. It couldn't have been. She must have been mistaken._

_Farielle didn't notice when they led her to another room instead of her own. A larger one, with a huge bed in the center of it. She stood where they left her, staring at the wall but not seeing it. Around her, she was vaguely aware of the two maids unpacking things, talking quietly together, going through..._

_She jerked herself from her abstraction and looked around in horror, then hurried to follow the women through the connecting door into a smaller room with two beds. Yes. This would do. She went to the corridor and ordered the guards to bring another bed, a small one. She didn't wait to see if they obeyed, but went back into the second room and looked around. _

_It would fit there... Farielle tucked the doll under her elbow and began to tug at the desk. The maids watched her, frowning, but finally one began to help her. The third bed made the room very crowded, but Farielle didn't care. There was no way she was sleeping in that other room - that other bed - unless forced. _

_Lominzil... the name ran through her mind like water, sweet and cool and refreshing; and she swung from a desperate hope to an equally desperate fear to utter despair. That night, she couldn't eat. Nor the next morning... _

_She had to find him again. Something that Lord Alphros had said tickled at her brain... oh yes. She was to be given an allowance. A faint smile flickered over her face. She would give it away - there were plenty of beggars. She would give his money to them. All of them. If Lominzil were truly there, if she had not been dreaming or fooling herself by her own desires - or seeing things still from the drugs she had been given - she would find him._

...

_One day - another. And another. Farielle got weary of the endless searching; the endless streams of beggars and poor. She hadn't found him - perhaps it had only been a dream. Each night, she sank into her bed thinking she would give up. Give up and unstitch the seams of the doll, and eat the seeds hidden there. Each morning, she woke, fiercely determined to find him. One more day, just one more day... _

_It was worse now than it had been - she no longer was allowed any time alone. The women slept in the room with her - some small voice inside reminded her that was her own choice - and the guards followed her everywhere. And nightmares still woke her. The only good thing about these endless terrible days was that she had not seen - she shied from the word 'husband' - Alkhaszor. Restlessly, she stood up and hurried from the room; the guardsmen falling into place beside her. She ignored them, wrapping the veil they insisted she wear about her face. She had to find him.. she had to!_

It is dizzyingly hot this Southern noon, and the Rath Sangahyando glistens and shimmers. People dressed in flowing linen walk the streets, trying not to crowd each other. Batsai, despite warnings and kicks, remains watchfully across the gate of Seaward Tower, lying on a rough mat.

Despite the heat, Farielle has insisted on going out. On none of her other forays into the city, handing out Alkhaszor's money to the deserving (and undeserving!) poor, has she seen the man again. And the intervening days have brought doubt and fear to that shining moment of revelation. Was it really.. could it have been... the drugs aren't still making her see things? Sickening mood-swings from hope to despair have made her nearly frantic. And she cannot wait until the evening cool. Now she comes, with the two guards, out of the gates of the tower, and hesitates, looking around. Where to go first?

The deaf beggar sits up, tilting his head in a surprisingly intelligent gesture toward the veiled lady.

The guards look - bored. Resigned. They haven't been able to talk their new mistress out of her idiotic missions of mercy, and there seems to be no harm in it. Other than her being in danger of being mobbed by urchins scenting the makings of their fortunes.

The girl turns left, randomly, catching sight of a bit of movement, and first hurrying, then deliberately slowing her steps. "Hello," she says in slow, careful Haradaic, stopping by the beggar, and reaching into her pouch for a copper penny. She stares hungrily at his face.

Batsai takes a drink from the chipped begging-bowl, which someone has filled with water instead of coin. He pulls his hood tighter over his face and tucks his rag-bound hands into his sleeves, and smiles at the lady.

His eyes are the same blue-grey as before.

"He is deaf, my lady," inserts one of the guards, not bothering to hide his disgust. "You'd best save your practicing for some other wretch."

"Deaf," Farielle repeats, not taking her eyes from ... yes - Lominzil's face. She holds the penny out for him to take, her gaze fixed to his, astonished, wondering. A smile spreads over her face in dawning joy, then she suddenly wipes it away. She can't be happy to see a beggar. No one must know.

The beggar's smile becomes idiotic at the sight of the penny. He reaches up to clasp Farielle's hands, taking the penny. And she may feel a little scrap of parchment being slipped into her hand...

Farielle clings to his hands - it is perhaps the greatest effort she has ever put forth, to let go, as if she does not care. "I am sorry," she says to him, foolishly, such an idiot girl, not only is he deaf, but surely he couldn't understand common even if he could hear it! "That you are deaf... I will give you two pennies." Her hand goes to her pouch, bringing out a second penny - and leaving the paper safely hidden within.

It seems Batsai will do a little jig of joy at the unexpected income, but he merely smiles wide and bows to her, his forehead touching the ground.

And she watches him yet, trying her best to keep a look of sympathy and distress on her face - but in truth unable to move away. He is water to the dying, snow in the desert... At last, reluctantly, but impelled by the knowledge that she dare not bring her guards' attention down on him, she moves away.

And there is the note. Farielle goes about her self-appointed duty, until she dare to return to her room.

And Lominzil watches his sister leave, fingernails digging into his arms to prevent his leaping up and following her, and perhaps running into one of the guards at her side, knife first.

_All the rest of the day, she was hyper aware of the tiny piece of paper in her coin purse. And terrified someone would come and demand to look within it. But though she had hardly noticed it, the servants treated her with more respect now. Aside, she thought bitterly, from haunting her every step. _

_That night, when she dressed for sleep, she let the purse fall onto her bed among her clothes, and then, when she took the gown and handed it to one of the maids to care for, gave the pouch a nudge under a corner of blanket. And as she lay in bed, eyes closed, tense and rigid as a board, listening to the breathing of the two maids; she held it in her hand, unseen. Until, at last, several decades later..._

_It was written in smudged charcoal - only one line: I will find a way; be ready._

_She closed her hand about the paper, crumpling it into garbage, and fell asleep, smiling._


	50. Chapter 50

_Ar-Pharazon's Isle_

The isle housing the Corsair fleet and military complex fills almost half of the harbour. East to west the island is slightly over 200 yards long, and less than half that north to south. A lighthouse stands high over you, obviously ancient-its brilliant beam of light shines bright out over the ocean to the west. There is a large low building just ahead housing some military personel, and the Corsair docks extent off to the East. Hundreds of ships of varied type, all with black sails, sit awaiting the call of war.

It's morning, and cool. Cooler anyways. Along the eastern edge of the island are rows of waiting ships; but on the west, little, if any, of this can be seen - especially if you are looking to the west out over the water, as Farielle is. In the shadow of the lighthouse, sitting among low tufts of grass; her shoes are set beside her and her feet are bare. And standing flanking her and a little behind, are the two guards - Hassadite Retainers from Caldur.

A woman, in her 30s, sits nearby, on a blanket. She is silent, and looking rather disapproving. Farielle ignores them all. She has gotten as far away from the three as she can, without them picking up and following after her again.

A young woman, barely more than a girl, wanders from behind the lighthouse. "Come /on/," she cajoles, speaking to someone still hidden by the tower. Her voice is full of exasperation and she waves her hand, beckoning, as if to a small child. Evidently this does not produce the desired effect either, for she next reaches into her robes and pulls out something small and slightly floppy. She holds it out, like a treat. "C'mon," she repeats, this time her voice purposefully sweet.

Then it emerges, but it is not a someone, but a something: A beautiful black heron, high enough to stand up to just below the girl's hip. Though, admittedly, she is quite small.

Upon the periphery of Farielle's vantage, where the land bends around toward Umbar's vast stand of Corsair ships, two silhouettes stand in the slow-warming light of the morning hours. One is a woman tall and slender in stature whose silken clothing drifts absently in the breeze; the other a tall, broad-shouldered man with arms crossed, and a brow furrowed so moodily as to be seen from such a distance. Though no sound carries forth this far from their meeting, the bent of their heads and occasional gesture of hand suggests an involved conversation.

After a length of time they part, the figure of the man rounds the island out of view at a pace. The woman, however, takes up an idle stroll over the sand with, as can be noticed the closer she comes, bare feet and an untroubled swing in her slender arms. If she sees either of the two young women, or the former's guard, then she prefers to appear unaware and nonchalant, it would seem.

Voices. Movement. Unseen, Farielle grimaces, and refuses to look around. But then... she peers over her shoulder, and a smile comes unbidden. She doesn't call out right away, but watches the younger girl - until the bird comes stalking out. The smile slips into a frown, and Farielle looks back out at the ocean, her shoulders tight.

The girl tosses the fish and the heron cranes his neck to catch it. With a quick flip, it's down his throat, creating a fish-shaped lump therein. With quick undulating movements, the fish is worked down his long neck and disappears. He readily follows the girl now.

Amestris turns around, looking from one person to the next. She does not appear to recognize any of those sharing the beach with her, but she heads towards the water, her passage bringing her nigh Farielle.

The heron's dramatic catch seems enough to draw the woman's eye for certain, and the veil of thought upon her lifts to leave an amused half-smile upon a face now recognized to be Niakhti of Desert. The steel of her eyes hones in upon Farielle long before she approaches, apart from the occasional wary glance to the girl who approaches her with her avian company.

"My, my. You do command quite the crowd, don't you?" she muses to the pale woman when closer company is reached, a brow quirked by Farielle's hard-fought focus upon the waves as much as by the heron.

So much for quiet and a dubious 'privacy'. Farielle smoothes the frown away from her face, and resigned, looks up at Niakhti. "It is not by choice," she answers resignedly, and lifts a hand to catch Amestris' attention. And in case this isn't enough, she calls the girl's name as well.

Surprised to be known in this place, the desert girl looks around until she espies the Gondorian lady and her dark-clad companion. "Farielle! You're back!" she cries, her face lighting up. She rushes over. The heron toddles after her.

"Perhaps by choice in some cases," Niakhti returns with a more pronouncedly appraising eye upon Amestris' approach. "Should I be hurt?" The same amused half-smile rests upon her features, but nothing about the woman's manner suggests any real offense taken, whether it is meant or not.

It was not meant. But Farielle's eyes fly up to Niakhti's face to see if she is serious, before she looks back at the other girl. "Yes," is all she says to Amestris, her voice neutral. But a smile flickers on her face again at her approach.

"When did you return?" Amestris asks, then quickly on the heels of that question comes others. "And where did you go? What happened?"

Only after this volley of queries is shot does she look up at the other woman. "Good afternoon," she greets politely, bowing slightly in the tribal manner.

A hooded girl with dark curls picks her way down from the lighthouse, glances for a moment at the gathered, then moves hastily away.

Niakhti mirrors Amestris' bow in fashion. "To you as well," she answers in a verbal flourish that doesn't quite match the smirk upon her lips. "Enjoy the sun." This her only farewell, Niakhti turns her smile from the young women and sets off around the isle again.

Farielle watches Niakhti leave. "A week ago, I think," she says. "I don't know. On a boat somewhere." She falls silent then, picking at the grass and shredding it to bits. "I am glad you took the bird," she says at last.

"Oh I am so glad you are back, Farielle," says Amestris, plopping down on the blanket. "Now you can take your heron back. It has been very difficult caring for him."

"Oh." Farielle throws a handful of butchered grass bits towards the water. They scatter in the breeze - an ineffectual missile at best. "I was hoping you would want to keep him," she says, her voice colorless.

"No, no!" protests Amestris. "I cannot! I have not explained to my parents where he came from and though they have not yet asked, I fear they will and I will be in trouble with my father. I tried to bring him to live in Farside's gardens, but the Fleet Master made terrible demands for that favor so I cannot. There is no where to take him where he will be healthy and happy."

She looks at the beach forlornly. "I brought him here, but I do not know if he can live near salt water."

"I see." Farielle picks at another piece of grass, beginning to shred it as well. "I don't want you to be in trouble with your father," she says at last, reluctantly. "It could not be let go near - near the river? Where you said you have seen them?"

"It would take three weeks through the desert to reach the Poros," explains Amestris, a bit impatiently. "He would die before then and I can hardly ask my father to bring me there for this."

"You /must/ take him back to Seaward with you. No one makes you count the fish there everyday."

"Three weeks. That is too far, you are right." Farielle has done her best all this time, to not look at the bird. "Very well." She glances over her shoulder at her maid and the guards, and raises her voice. "This bird must come back to Seaward and be fed fish and cared for. It belongs to Lord Alphros."

"Your home, is it near the sea?" she asks Amestris, idly.

At Farielle's decree, the older of the guards narrows his eyes upon the bird mistrustfully before his expression is righted. Still, the nod to follow is a wary one. The maid appears equally wary as she watches the heron strut aimlessly in circles around the two girls.

"Is that why you do not want your heron?" asks Amestris, looking a bit cross. "Because it was given to you by Lord Alphros? That is cruel, Farielle. It is not the bird's fault and the poor creature should not suffer for its origin. It has come into your care and is your responsibility. It is a beautiful bird and deserves a mindful tender."

She puts her hands on her hips. "And no, I live very far from the sea. I had never even seen it before we came to Umbar."

"I do not want to think of him," Farielle says flatly, "And the bird reminds me. I am sorry it displeases you. But they will take good care of it; they are his servants." This last she says loudly enough that the guards and maid can still hear.

"The bird likes you and will likely continue to follow you around and try to sleep in your room," points out Amestris, her cross expression not abating. "But I am sure if you carefully explain to it that you do not like it because of the man who gave it to you, it will understand."

She reaches into her robes and pulls out a bit of wrapped sackcloth. Its fishy smell betrays its contents. The Bazhani girl offers it to Farielle.

Automatically, Farielle takes the bag of fish. "Thank you for caring for it," she says, her voice dull now. "I am sorry it was so much trouble to you. I only thought - that you liked it." She sets the bag down beside her, and stares out at the water. It glitters in the sunlight, shifting incessantly; though they sit yet in the shadow of the lighthouse. Where that shadow stretches over the water, it is a dark, murky green.

"I do like it," assures, Amestris. "And if I were a great lady like you, I could keep it. But no one will allow me to bring it to a pond. But you can do almost anything you like. You have servants and you live in a big tower. And no one will stop you from using the ponds in Seaward."

"I live in a house and mother and I must draw water from the well down the street. Fresh fish must be bought every day and the market is on the opposite side of the city from where I live. It is just too difficult for me to care for it and the heron could never be happy living our house without water to wade in or the blue sky above."

"I am sorry," Farielle says again, not looking away from the water. "I did not know. I will pay you for the fish." She looks almost as if she might cry, as if it is only force of will that keeps her eyes dry.

Amestris studies the woman for a moment, saying quietly. "That is not what I meant."

"I think you came here to be alone," she observes. "I should leave you. But I would like to visit you later now that you've returned."

Farielle nods, as if for a moment, she dare not trust her voice. Then she clears her throat. "I know. But I must. It was wrong of me to put such a burden on you, and that I did not think is no excuse. It - it is a debt."

She turns her head then, and manages a somewhat wavering smile. "I would be glad if you came."

Amestris rises and places her hand upon Farielle's shoulder for a moment. She smiles. "I will come soon."

As she walks away, she calls to the guard. "The heron will follow Farielle and the fish. You do not need to catch it, lest you want it beating you with its wings the whole way back to Seaward. The young woman giggles and trots off.

Farielle's hand comes up to cover Amestris' briefly. And as the girl leaves, she returns to staring at the bay.

* * *

_The young priestess kept coming to find him and talk at him. Lominzil - Batsai now, for that was the name she had given him - didn't know why. He didn't know what she was saying, though sometimes he could pick out this word or that from her speech. Slower as it was, it was easier to connect the words he had seen but never heard pronounced, with the ones spoken. And she looked different as well. Her skin was a more yellow shade of brown, and her eyes were tilted some._

_She had brought him to this place, sometimes she brought him extra food. Though she had an Eye embroidered on her clothes and another hanging about her neck on a chain, Lominzil could not hate her. He bore with her mannerisms and kept the foolish smile pasted on his face and his eyes blank. _

_He could not go every day to sit outside of Seaward Tower and hope for a glimpse of his sister; he feared the guards growing suspicious of him - or simply tiring of seeing his face. But as often as he dared, he went to one side or another of the tower: surreptitiously scanning the wall, watching the gate guards changing shifts, trying to guess which window might be Farielle's. But no matter how he bent his mind to the problem, he could not think how to get her out._

_Not without even being able to speak to her... That, he decided, must be his first priority. He had to find a way to speak to her so they could plan their escape._


	51. Chapter 51

_Umbar had a nightlife of its own, and the guards at the gates of the Great Towers were even more vigilant. And especially so at Seaward, after the recent invasion and theft of the Lord's property. Double the normal number of hard-eyed men patrolled the grounds and stood watch at the gates in the flaring light of the lanterns._

_Lominzil crouched in the gutter and pinched his lips together. The gate was impossible. Cautiously, he glanced along the street, and then stood up and shambled along towards the inner parts of the city. When he was out of sight once more, he stopped and tried to hold his breath to listen. He couldn't hear anything save the roaring of his blood in his ears; couldn't see anything but the moving shadows of the guards. He didn't think there was anyone behind him... he glanced over his shoulder, and saw nothing._

_Why wasn't sneaking around strange cities in the dark taught to all squires as part of their training for knighthood, he thought, his emotions a complex swirl of terror, exhilaration and despair. But as he clearly couldn't sneak into the Seaward Tower grounds, he decided to explore the city a little more. They still needed a way to get out without being caught._

_His hand was sweaty where it clenched the dagger under his ragged robe. There were real thieves out at night; real beggars who would stab him in the back for a crust of bread... A pebble shifted, and his stomach leapt into his mouth. He could hear his own breath, harsh and swift, as he whirled around. But there was nothing there. _

_After a long moment, he continued down the street, slipping sideways into an alley. Half-way along it was a stone he'd noticed earlier in the week. It looked odd, and he squatted down beside it, looking over his shoulder once more, before shifting the knife to where he could reach it easily and feeling at the edges of the rock. It was grooved. Lominzil dug his fingers into the gritty holes and leaned back, straining with all his might. His muscles quivered, but it was coming up... His fingers slipped, and he let it drop, cursing silently. _

_But in that brief moment, he'd gotten a whiff of cool, fetid air. The sewers! he thought, something leaping inside him. He stood and paced back and forth, thinking feverishly. They could get in - but where did it come out? Somewhere outside the city, surely. He didn't dare climb down there now; with no way to pull the stone shut after him, and no way of knowing if he could ever get it open again from below. But if he and Fari..._

_Someone spoke behind him, a single harsh word. _

_For an instant, Lominzil froze, half-turning towards the voice before he remembered he was deaf. Ice prickled along his skin as he forced himself to continue walking up and down as if he had heard nothing; gripping the dagger under his clothes until his hand ached._

_Unexpectedly, the man laughed and said something else. He came around in front of Lominzil, reaching out to take Lominzil's chin in his hand and turn his face to the feeble light of the stars. _

_The Gondorian caught a glint of light sliding along a blade in the man's other hand, and said nothing, only lifted his empty hand palm up, and tried to smile his beggar's smile. Vacant, meaningless, foolish. Meaningless wasn't hard; he had no idea what the man was saying. Vacant was more difficult._

_The man spoke again, and let his hand drop and stared up from hard black eyes. He stepped closer and lowered his voice, and Lominzil caught a single word. "...Vain?" _

* * *

_-_Seaward Tower Gardens-

There is a small pond here - it is not the larger one that the heron no doubt prefers, but Farielle won't go there - this one is only one step above tiny. An exquisite trickle of water falls from a rock into it, and ruffles the surface. And a black heron stands in the water looking, if birds can, disgruntled. Farielle sits nearby, her back to the pond.

Making her way up the garden path is a strange sight indeed, a Priestess of the Eye decked out head to toe in black and white. Clearly feeling a little bit self-concious, S'aria walks a little bit faster than usual, clutching a long white cloak about her slender form, as if she is naked beneath. Instead, she is merely wearing a pair of trouser, but it seems from the way the girl's fingers trace to the edge of the garments that the Easterling is not used to such an innovation in her clothing. Regardless, she moves with purpose, her long braided hair trailing out behind her, pausing momentarily to glance towards the pound as she spots Farielle sitting there.

The Gondorian glances up briefly at the sound of footsteps, and then looks away. She is not so withdrawn as last time S'aria saw her, but neither could she be described in any way as outgoing or cheerful.

The Easterling looks at Farielle for a moment before she moves to head over in that direction, a smirk twisting onto the young girl's features. "Greetings, Lady Farielle," calls out the girl as she makes her way through the garden towards the Gondorian woman. "What do you think of my outfit? Lady Eruphel helped me pick it out... she told me I should try pants for a change." Tugging at the side of her trousers a little bit, S'aria comes to a stop at the edge of the pool, leaning to the side uneasily. Her dark eyes flicker down to her features, "I know the Haradim women wear trousers all the time, but I still feel like a bloody boy...", demurs the Priestess.

Farielle doesn't look up. "It is very nice," she answers, expressionlessly. The bird spreads its wings as S'aria comes to close and hisses. It is a large bird, almost waist-high on a short person, and has a wickedly long beak.

S'aria takes a step back away from the bird, eyeing it carefully. She does not want to get her new clothing full of holes and that beak looks sharp. Seeming to relax a little bit, the girl folds her arms in front of her chest, glancing over to Farielle now. "So... how are you adjusting?", she tries weakly. "Has... Sir Alkhaszor been treating you well?"

"Sir Alkhaszor despises me," is Farielle's unemotional response. She fixes her attention on a bush nearby. The heron lowers its wings, but remains watchful, cocking its head so that bright black eyes are fixed on S'aria.

"I imagine he does... he sounds quite devoted to his late wife," remarks the girl with a frown as she crouches down near Farielle. She gives the bird a playful grin, tilting her head to the side as she extends a hand out, to see if the creature is willing to approach or not. "You know... I still want to help you if you will let me. There is still a lot that can be done to make your stay here more... manageable," she says, her words softening a bit. She turns to look at Farielle briefly, her braid sliding over one shoulder. "You know... if you want to chew me out over what happened, you can. I totally deserve it..."

The heron jabs suddenly at S'aria's hand.

"Thank you. I have had sufficient of your 'help'. I do not wish for any more." There is nothing in Farielle's voice. No hatred, no fear, nothing. She could be talking politely about the weather by her tone. And she entirely ignores the girl's final words.

A wince flickers across the young Priestess' face as the bird catches the tip of her finger before she can retract it. Luckily for her, no blood is let, but she gives the hand a shake before popping the finger in her mouth. "Vicious thing...", she mumbles before pushing to her feet. "Come on... You did not even let me help you. What, you think I thought marrying you to Sir Alkhaszor was a favor? Lord Alphros could have proclaimed you married himself by the law, or just have fetched another Priestess...", she says taking a few steps towards the other girl, hands resting on her hips.

"I do not know what you thought," Farielle replies, disinterestedly. "And you made no attempts to help me. I wish no favors from Him or his servants. What do you think you could do that would aid me now?"

The heron withdraws, tilting its head the other way as S'aria stands, still watching her intently.

"Well, I am what I am... and I am not ashamed about that," says the Priestess decked out in enough white to almost make that an ironic statement. "I can help you adapt here? Learn the language, use the political system to your advantage? If you are savy enough there is no saying what you can accomplish," the girl explains as she crosses her arms, her dark eyes flickering with thought. "Start small, and then you can think bigger. What is the thing you want most right now? A divorce? You know you can make that happen... if you play your cards correctly, right?", offers the black-hared Easterling by way of parlay. She turns her head to the Heron and makes a face at it while she awaits Farielle's reply.

Farielle turns her head, and listens. And shakes it. "I will accept no aid from him or his servants," she repeats. "Once I was fool enough to believe that perhaps your desire for friendship was true. I will not make that mistake again. If you could this moment by some dark powers waft me home, I would not accept." There is something behind her gaze, hidden in opacity.

A glint of threatening tears appears in the Easterling's gaze, but she holds it back. "Then do not accept it until I prove otherwise. I am a human just like you are... can I not act as a human? Do you think they have carved out my innards? Remember, I told you what was going to happen before it did! Why would I do that if I did not want to help you?" She looks down at her hands, "I... can help you arange to see the High Priestess. She can annul the marriage. There was several irregularities that violated the Law. You have a very strong case if you are willing to act upon what you want." She sighs softly, lifting a hand to her head, "Look... I have been trying here... to find a place outside of the Church. That... is what happened... I lost sight of your friendship... That doesn't mean it never meant anything to me... It still does. I want it so bad for some reason," she tries to confess, but it is clearly something the Dark Priestess is not used to.

"You did not tell me this would happen," Farielle points out quietly, but not ungently. "And there is a difference between doing something because you must, or because you find it your only path towards a desired goal; and in rejoicing in - in the distress of another." She looks back to the shrub, her voice having faltered for a tiny moment before she steadies it.

"I cannot accept. I wish you joy in your search." The words have the ring of finality, though she has not entirely rejected S'aria's renewed protestations of a desire for friendship. Neither has she accepted them.

S'aria is nothing if not stubborn. Many would have lost patience after all several conversations ago with the Gondorian lady. Her thin eyebrows furrow, "Remember? I told you he would spirit you away to marry you against your will. Sure, I thought /he/ would marry you. But I was right about the important part right? You would be miserable with either of them..." And then S'aria does something she has not done before with Farielle, and she steps forward moving into Farielle's field of vision, a white of her cloth fluttering in the wind. She tries to look into the other woman's eyes, her own pleading. "How long are you just going to sit here? How well did that work out last time? I am not asking you to forgive me or accept me unconditionally. I am just saying... let's give trying to /do/ something a chance. There are no Knights in this city that are going to come rescue you. It's up to you and me if you want to be anything more than just a puppet for other people to toy with."

A faint smile flickers over Farielle's face, gone so swiftly it may never have been. "No," she repeats musingly. "There are no Knights in this city." Strangely, perhaps, that thought seems to please her.

She does look up now, meeting S'aria's eyes. Her own are - walled. There is no expression to be seen there; no hint of her thoughts. "How would getting my marriage annulled make my life better?" she asks politely. "It would serve only to anger Lord Alphros, and no doubt, Alkhaszor as well. For all your fine words of being more than a puppet, I am yet in their power."

"Last I checked, you did not want them on your side. You could even ask the High Priestess for sanctuary but that would involve you going to the Dark citadel," explains the Easterling, her own eyes flickering with thought. She sits down in the grass in front of Farielle cross-legged, her expression emphatic. "What you need to start doing is using their enemies against them. The Church is one. So is Desert Tower. You are not going to get those people to take you to gondor. But if you are politically savvy enough you can break Alphros' control over you. If you are thorny enough, he will give up on trying to keep you under control. And when that happens you will be able to leave if you have established the right connections. I am sure for enough money you could get a corsair to sail you to the harbor."

Farielle listens courteously though she gives no indication as to her thoughts. "Desert Tower will do nothing openly against Alphros," she says. "For that would bring Lady Azradi's wrath upon them. Lady Eruphel as well, I expect."

"Not unless you give them just cause. If Alphros is trying to punish you for the ruling of the High Priestess then you have just cause," explains S'aria to the Gondorian. "Desert Tower is loyal to the Church and eager to prove Alphros is a heretic secretly. It would be perfect justification for them to take action. And Lady Azardi would be less eager to respond with force if it would seem like she was questioning a High Priestess' ruling overtly."

"But I have only your word that your high priestess would do this," Farielle points out, still politely. "You will understand, I am sure, that I find it difficult to trust." She rises gracefully. "Excuse me. I don't wish to be late." With a well-bred nod of her head, she turns to leave; the bird stalking from its pool to follow her. Two guardsmen detach themselves from trees a little ways away, and flank her down the path.

"You will have to make your case to her. But as I said, you have a solid argument on more than one front for it to be anulled. That no blood was used is the biggest violation," explains the girl before the guards approach and she seems to get a little bit more worried about being exposed. With a sigh she pushes to her feet, a lopsided frown on her face as she watches the woman move to go, scratching the side of her head, and scattering a few dark strands of hair. "Stubborn one... would help if I had not messed up so bad earlier," murmurs the girl under her beath before she heaves a sigh and turns to make her way into the Tower through another way.

_Farielle hurried into the tower and up to her room. She didn't want to go in yet; sitting in the garden was the nearest she could get to privacy. But neither did she want to listen to S'aria any longer. She wanted to think._

_The most important thing was how to get out of the tower. She had no idea how to get out of the city, or what to do after that. She would have to trust Lominzil for that. But he could do nothing if she could not even escape the tower. And with the guards following her every where, Farielle didn't know how to do that._

_If only she could talk to him somehow, so that they could plan. Her steps slowed as she went up the stairs and she frowned in thought. She had deliberately forced herself not to seek for him, but to go randomly among the beggars. If she drew attention to him and he was caught - she felt sick at the thought. _

_She wondered if it might be safe to slip a bit of paper back to him when she saw him next and gave him a coin as she did all the others. But how to do it? She couldn't drop it into his bowl - it would be seen. If he held out his hand, perhaps... She made up her mind, suddenly. She would have to take the chance. Now if she could only write something without those maids noticing. _

_Farielle stopped as she came to her door, and said to the guard who stood outside, "I would like a screen brought, please. To put beside my bed." She waited until he nodded in acknowledgement, then went inside._


	52. Chapter 52

Seaward Tower: Farielle's room

It's evening, but early yet. A cool breeze blows through the two windows that this room has. It is larger than the other, but more crowded as well - for there are three cots in it, and not just one. Two are side by side against the far wall; the third is in the opposite corner behind a screen. Between the two is a table and a young Hardornian woman is sitting at it, sewing. A slightly older woman is lying on one of the bed, resting - she looks to be Umbarean.

The rest of the room is much like the one Farielle had before; a little more richly furnished. Her things - the paints, an embroidery kit, a box of books, some clothing (the two silk dresses provided by Alphros being notably invisible) - are neatly arranged. In the corner behind the door, is the heron, who watches the two women servants with what might be suspicion, did a bird feel such. And there is another door, clearly connecting through to a second room. This one has a chest pushed in front of it, blocking it from opening.

Farielle herself is sitting as she has grown accustomed to - on the floor, on a cushion, with her back against the wall. She has a book open in her hands, but isn't really looking at it. And, as before, there are numerous lamps around, and all of them are lit. The girl still looks thin and tired.

The heavy scent of flowers is slowly apparent at the door. Nisrin is heard talking to one of the Hassadite guards outside.

The younger of the two women, Hikalla, looks around at the sound of voices, and then gets up and goes to the door, opening it a crack and looking out.

"Oh ... hello," says Nisrin to the maid. She is holding an armful of jewel-toned lilies, their scent overwhelming the air. "May I come in? I am an acquaintance of Lady Farielle."

The girl eyes the flowers and takes a luxurious sniff. "Ohhh, aren't those nice!"

"Who are you? I'll ask the Lady if she wants visitors." In a lower, conspiratorial voice, she says, "Do her a bit of good, I'd say!"

"Nisrin," says the corsair girl. "...Hashikh," she adds after a hesitant pause, and smiles. "I will do my best to cheer her up."

"Lady - it's Nisrin Hashikh," Hikalla says, turning her head to look inside. "Shall I ask her in? She's brought some of the most beautiful flowers!" Her voice is almost coaxing.

Farielle looks up after a minute. Not as if she is ignoring the woman, but as if her reactions are delayed a little. After another minute, a hesitant smile crosses her face. "Yes," she says. "And, Hikalla, would you go and bring us something to drink, please?"

"And a vase, if you can find one!" Nisrin shuffles in, trying to see beyond the flower-tops. She is wearing the outfit that Farielle chose the last time they met, and her curls are held back by a carven ivory comb. She smiles, but it does not light up her eyes. "Tariq is nice," she ventures...

"Oh, well. Yes, of course, my lady." Hikalla nods and smiles and glances at the other woman, still sleeping. "I'll be back in a jiffy!" She whisks out the door, shutting it behind her.

Farielle glances at the door. "Is he?" she asks, uncaringly. "They are very pretty. Where did you get them?"

"Market," giggles Nisrin girlishly. "They sell everything..." The corsair leans in and glances about before speaking in a low voice, "By the hair of the Sea Lady, what happened?"

The Gondorian glances casually over at the sleeping maid. Her voice equally low, she asks, "..with what?"

Nisrin sighs. "What happened so that you were wed to Alkhaszor, not his King?" she asks plainly.

Farielle looks down. But for just a minute, if Nisrin was looking, she might see a blaze of hatred and bitter anger in the other girl's eyes. "I don't know," she says tonelessly. "Lord Alphros sent him to bring me to him. And S'aria. He asked if I wished to marry him. I said I did not. How could I /want/ to marry him? I do not know him. I would have married him if he ordered it, for what choice did I have? But to say that I /wanted/ to - I could not lie."

She is trembling at the memories, and her hands clench tightly together. "So he said that he would show me a kindness. Kindness!" She spits this out, the only word with any emotion attached, then reverts to an unemotional recital. "He would not marry me. Instead he would marry me to Alkhaszor. Alkhaszor despises me. He could only find himself able to bear the shame of being wed to one so vile as myself, when Lord Alphros promised him the lordship of my family in Gondor."

That this can only occur if said family members are dead first, she doesn't say. "However, I am such a shame to them both, that they have sent me back here to learn proper behavior from the Dark Citadel." Now she does look up; her face dead white and set implacably. The anger and hatred have vanished from her eyes, replaced by an unalterable purpose. With another look over at the sleeping maid, she lowers her voice still further. "I am not staying here. I don't know how, but I will go home, or I will die trying. I - you have been my friend, Nisrin. I do not ask for help you cannot give, but please, do not betray me." From dispassionate to set-in-stone, now a note of pleading enters her voice.

"I will not betray you," says Nisrin, swallowing hard. She takes the comb from her hair and begins to fiddle with it, tracing the scrolled carving on its spine. "There is ... a path through the garden maze, if that is your plan. Keep the aloes that grow alongside the path always to your right, and you will come near the gate. That is all I can give you."

Farielle nods, committing it to memory.

"Why would he do such a thing?" she asks after a while, unhappily. "If he did not want me himself... but to give me to someone like that? Is there no kindness in him?" For a brief second, she looks like she might start to cry, as she says in a whisper, "Am I truly so v-vile?"

Then her gaze is caught by Nisrin fiddling with the comb. The maid stirs, turning over heavily, and Farielle blinks back the tears, and pushes away her misery, smiling mechanically. "That is pretty - is it new?"

"You are not vile, for you have done nothing against us but wash Gondor's bandages," says Nisrin gently. "But there is no place for you here. Better that you make preparations and leave soon, before," the girl looks away, "you become content and sit in your cage. 'Tis a lovely room," she adds louder as the maid begins to wake.

"It was a gift." The corsair smiles, looking down at the comb. "From Yildirim."

For a moment, Farielle's eyes cling to Nisrin's, and her smile gains trueness. She nods, dropping her gaze to the comb again, and manages an almost-natural laugh. Well - at least, it doesn't sound /too/ sickly! "Yildirim!" she says as if delighted.

The door opens again and Hikalla comes back in, breathlessly saying, "My lady, I found this for a vase, and here..." She sets down a pitcher and two glasses on the table beside the girls, and takes the lilies from Nisrin, fussing over arranging them and setting them with a flourish beside the drinks. "There. Now isn't that nice?"

"Thank you," Farielle says, smiling up at Hikalla. "Tell me all about it," she orders Nisrin, picking up the pitcher and starting to pour. "I knew he liked you!"

"It - it is not much, really," admits the other girl, her face turning dark rose. "We went to the lighthouse, I do not know if you have seen it, but it looks out across where we first met. You can see all Umbar from there, standing above all the dust and heat and filth of the city..."

"Thank you," says Nisrin cheerfully to the maid, looking over to the flowers.

"Can you go in it?" Farielle asks, her voice quickening with interest. "I went there once, to sit in the shadow and look out over the water. I didn't know you could go inside."

The smile grows teasing. "You went there together? Alone? And he gave you this? Nisrin! He /does/ like you! He was asking me about gifts to give a lady. Oh, I'm glad."

"There is only a firepit there, nothing interesting. - We did not do anything else, you know!" cries Nisrin in mock indignation. "Ohh, it was you who suggested it. I did not know if he had such ... experience. With wooing," she finishes awkwardly. "It was a lovely suggestion."

"No, no." Fari is shaking her head. "I didn't suggest anything. I only told him that the gifts I liked best were the ones where I knew the person had thought about what I would like. So you see, he did! Take time to think what you would like." She giggles, but blushes too at Nisrin's reply.

"I must get something for him, as well," decides Nisrin. "Is it proper for a woman to give gifts to a man?"

"Yes," Farielle says firmly, though a sudden shadow crosses her face. There is a pause, and then she says, "Only - only I do not know what." She pushes away the thought of the gift she had bought once - So long ago. Four months ago. - and never given. "What do you think he would like?"

"Something ... useful?" Nisrin runs a hand through her curls. "I know so little about him, and yet he knows so much about me. It seems ... unfair?"

"I don't know..." Farielle shakes her head then. "I think," she says slowly, "Perhaps I am wrong, but just once, I think you should get him something frivolous. Something he would never get for himself." She glances at the flowers, and grins mischievously. "You can always get something useful when you know what he needs and would use!"

"But he takes things seriously, I think," says Nisrin blushingly. "Oh, I do not know. I will take a look around the market. Are you allowed to go outside, Farielle? Perhaps we could go together sometime."

"Then it would be good for him," Farielle says, firmly. "I would like to go with you, that would be fun." Some thought strikes her and she turns, rifling through a small chest. When she turns back, she is holding out a small money pouch - the one Nisrin gave her. "Please," she says. "I said that I would pay you back, and now I can. I - I am given an allowance. I do not want to wait, for fear I should forget." Her eyes are intent, a meaning in them other than the words that are said.

"Of course." Nisrin eyes the purse, but takes it and holds it gingerly, giving the Gondorian an imperceptible nod. "You are ... honorable, Lady Farielle. I hope the shoes still look nice!"

Unacknowledged relief broadens Farielle's smile. "They do," she answers, and nods towards where her dresses hang. The slippers are sitting beneath them. "I haven't much opportunity to wear them, so they are nearly like new."

"They match with other things, you know," says Nisrin sensibly. "Trousers and things. Shirts. We should look for some."

"Oh. I have never worn trousers," Farielle confesses shyly. "You do not think... I would - would I look silly?"

"They are easier to move around in, since you might trip in skirts," the other girl replies. "Not that noblewomen run around all day, mind you..."

"I suppose..." The two maids are moving quietly around the room, and now one goes to the door and leaves. Hikalla again. There is briefly the sound of her laughter and chatter with the guard, then it is quiet again. "I could try, anyways," Farielle says after a moment of maidenly hesitation.

"They are not very good for wooing men, though," admits the Haradrim girl. "When might you be able?"

The smile freezes. "I will not be wooing anyone," Farielle says, her voice hard. She takes a breath and lets it out, and the moment is gone. "Tomorrow?" she asks.

"I know," says Nisrin softly, sounding a little hurt. "What I meant was they would be easier for ..." The girl shrugs and adjusts a flower, smiling. "Tomorrow I will come by, then."

"I'm sorry," Farielle says in quick apology, reaching to touch Nisrin's hand. "You didn't deserve that from me. I - I speak too quickly, sometimes."

"I will be ready."

"It is all right," murmurs Nisrin, smiling absently. "Very well." And she steps towards the door.

_Pants. Perhaps she could dress as a boy. Farielle tried to keep the leap of hope from showing in her face - it wasn't as hard now as it would have been at home. She had months of practice at not showing what she was feeling. If she cut her hair and colored her face and hands with the paints Azradi had given her, and dressed as a boy... _

_She had no idea if the guards would pay attention to a ragged lad leaving Seaward's gates, or if they only concerned themselves with people trying to come in. But she had no other ideas either. And she would have to disguise herself if - when she escaped. The entire city would be looking for her as soon as they realized she was gone; she dared not be a white-skinned girl anywhere within reach of Umbar's walls._

_She went to sleep thinking gratefully of Nisrin's support._


	53. Chapter 53

_At The Shrine of the Heroes,_ _a newly-reclaimed chamber where the Lady of the Tower can worship her ancestors, and pray._

_Not long given to this purpose, yet somehow it almost feels perfect. Like the Great Hall below, a great window here opens to the West-where fallen Numenor lies beneath the wave-and serves as the primary focus of worship. As all other things about the Seaward Tower, this chamber is severe and minimalist in its decor, yet somehow elegant in such simplicity._

_The illumination here is provided strictly by the sun; the oil-lamps are left out during the daylight hours. The only statuary in this shrine is sparse-white marble reliefs of Ar-Pharazon and Ar-Adunakhor-and mounted upon either wall. Three hard benches, with room for perhaps seven men abreast, face the window._

The sun slants in from the west, across the sea, through the only window. It is the only illumination, and so the corners of the room are dim for the brilliance of that beam of light. Within it, spurning the benches in favor of standing at the window itself, is a figure - little more than a shadow almost obliterated by the bright sun. Outside the archway is one of the guards; across the room, Farielle's door is open and the maids can be seen busying themselves.

Garbed in dark clothing once again more fitting of her profession, the young Priestess S'aria makes her way through the hallway towards the doorway and the arches. The darkness of her skirts seems to defy the light, the girl moving like a living shadow through it, the sunbeams bouncing off the gleaming black sheen of her lovely dark hair. Squinting just a little as she enters the shrine, the Easterling lifts a tan hand to shield her eyes, peering at the figure in the window. "Lady Farielle?", she calls out as if uncertain as to its identity.

"Tis her," says the guard, Ridwan by name, and shuts his mouth. He is not talkative like his cohort. But perhaps it is as well he has answered. Farielle says nothing at all, nor makes any sign that she has heard.

With a brief sigh at Farielle's continual shunning of her, S'aria slides a bang of black hair behind an ear, moving out of the way of the light to a more shady part of the room. She has her large leather satchel dangling from her bag, "I thought we might start our studies today unless you wish to discuss something else. Sir Alkhaszor or Lord Alphros are likely to inquire as to our progress and I will be in much trouble if I come up empty-handed." S'aria sounds hardly into the task either, though she reaches into her satchel. "I brought you some things. I heard you suffered burns during the warmer period... I have some creme I plan on using to keep my skin's natural color I figured you could use some too," she says pulling out a small glass container of a clear white substance.

"You may tell them that it was my fault entirely," Farielle answers. "I am sure they will be only too ready to believe you." She ignores the creme at first, then turns as if it is an after thought. "How does it work?"

"Except I am trying to help you... remember?", replies S'aria lazily, she has been around Farielle that responding to the other's treatment of her has almost become routine. Yet there is still a willful determination in her eyes, though her smile is wan at best. She approaches the fair-haired Gondorian beauty and offers her the ointment, a smirk forming on her lips. "Its much better than the drink I gave you when we first met, I promise." If Farielle takes it, she folds her hands across her chest, "You should apply it to the exposed parts of your skin or irritated parts ever day after a bath. It heals your skin of sunburns and prevents it from darkening... It is still going to hurt if you sit around naked at high noon, but at least this will heal the burns and you will not start to look like a desertwoman," she says with a chuckle.

"No," Farielle says flatly. "I do not remember." But she takes the ointment, setting it down on the window's ledge.

S'aria rolls her eyes at this, the little girl wrinkling her nose with irritation."You can tell me I have done a poor job of helping you. There you might have a case... But you cannot tell me I am not trying," she says stubbornly. With a grunt she steps up to the other woman, her nose almost touching the other woman's. The teenager's lip quiver's a little bit but there is compassion there in her dark eyes, along with her stubborn spirit not perhaps unlike the Gondorian's own. "Will you at least let me tell you what happened that night? If you ever thought... that there might be something good in me, don't you owe me that much? Come on, Farielle...", she pleads her hands tightening into fists at her side.

Farielle gives up looking west and turns away from the sun. But she doesn't step out of it, rather puts her back to the window. "I know what happened," she says. "I was there. Remember? But since I clearly cannot stop you, speak."

"I meant with me, my motivations...", replies S'aria, her determined eyes immediately dropping to the floor. Her arms tighten uncomfortably in front of her chest, the girl's voice softening a great deal. "You lived in Gondor all your life right? Don't you know what it is like to feel trapped sometime? To feel... like your life has been set out before you?", she asks without looking, perhaps she is afraid of what she will see in Farielle's cold eyes. "You know I have been trying to get involved with Lord Alphros and his kind. I know you hate them... but for me its everything I ever wanted. A chance to do something with my life outside of the Church, a chance to achieve things of my own hardwork. You know I was inducted into the Church when I was eight right? Not exactly out of choice either," she finally gives Farielle a cautious look, indeed, it looks like she is afraid the other might laugh at her or make fun of her.

Farielle doesn't laugh. She doesn't - anything, really. But she listens. "No," she says at last. "I have never felt trapped... until now." 'Now', for her, means the past months. "I love my family, and they love me, and I know that my father will - would find me a husband, and I could trust him to find a man who would be kind to me and treat me with honor."

"Well, lucky you... that was the story of my childhood. It was either slop around in the mud with my father as a slave or be a Priestess of the Eye. And then when I excelled they kept me back because apparently sixteen is two young to be a Priestess of the second circle," demurs S'aria with a frown on her face. She lingers on the question of Father's though, her expression growing distant. She nudges the edge of the shrine with a sandled toe, "Mine... would have probably been a good Father too if things had turned out differently. I am sure he would have gotten me a husband too but... I was so terrified of the thought of living my whole life like that. I did not even hesitate when I was offered to join the priesthood... anything is better than a slave, right? At least that is what I thought."

There seems to be no reply to this. Farielle stands quietly in the sunlight, her face in shadow, and waits to see what else S'aria wishes to say.

Starting a little, S'aria realizes the got off track, her cheeks blushing a little bit. "R-right well... In Harad they are mostly keeping me back because of my youth and... I have been feeling the need to make a name for myself outside of the church." She swallows a little, still lingering in the shadows, though now she bows her head, dark locks hiding her tan face from view. "So you can imagine... there I was and Lord Alphros of all people was asking me for a favor. A chance to earn the gratitude of someone outside of the church. If he trusts me, what opportunities would be denied me if I served him well?" And then she approaches Farielle quickly, tears glistening in her eyes. "It... was wrong. I lost sight of what matters. I told myself when I joined the Priesthood I would /never/ be like that... and there I was selling you out like that... But... can't you understand? Wouldn't you have been tempted to do the same thing if you were me?"

"I do not know," Farielle says quietly. Hasn't she herself, just recently, been tempted to consort with servants of her people's long enemy? "But I have told you already, it is not what you did. I do not know; I may have done the same, if I were you."

"But I saw you, S'aria. You delighted in my distress. You gloated at having power, and using it for misery. And when you had a choice, even then, you did not choose compassion or kindness."

Tears dribble down S'aria's cheeks, the girl leaning heavily against the side of the room. She lifts a hand trying to wipe them away, "I know, it was cruel and wrong. But... part of me was gloating. I was going to earn a big favor from Alphros and from who... a Gondorian who hated my guts already anyway! I was sure I was not going to get to see you again either way... .." She lowers down to her knees in front of the other woman, her hands pressing into the stone floor as she looks up with wide, wet eyes. "If I could take it back I would... I am so sorry. It was horrible and cruel... nothing like the person I want to be..."

"I didn't hate you," Farielle says, quietly. "Stand up, S'aria."

She turns around now, to look back out into the West. "You were not taught as I," she continues, as if she is thinking out loud. "I cannot expect honor from who knows nothing of what it is." A little louder, "I will tell you what my mother said to me, when I was young. There are three things you can never get back - an arrow loosed into flight, a word spoken in cruelty, and a dishonorable action. I - " She hesitates for the first time. "I do not know how to tell you what honor is. I saw it, all my life, in my brothers and my parents. It is doing what is /right/ no matter what it costs." All this is spoken as she has said everything else, not loudly and with very little emotion.

S'aria listens quietly, slowly pushing to her feet as the other speak. Her dark brows furrow, the girl not really understanding what Farielle is talking about. "We Easterling have a similar word but it does not sound the same. It is a warrior's honor... achieving glory in battle, protecting your clan, defeating your enemies so that your name lives on in the stories passed down to generation. But we do not see shame in retreat, or in chosing your battles. Honor for the clan is in victory, not defeat. Though we do not see shame in death unless it is the result of stupidity," explains the girl. She exhales, wrinkling her nose as she tries to comprehend, eyes still moist though she seems more in control of her emotions now. "I suppose that that is what is right for my people? Then is it incorrect to say they were honorable?"

"I don't know," Farielle says. "My brothers spoke of honor in battle - there is no honor in defeating someone weaker than yourself, or unarmed. Nor in harming a woman - but women among my people do not fight, so it is cowardly to attack them, for they cannot defend themselves."

"To do what is right ... I - my father is the lord over people and lands. He has power over them and their lives. It would be wrong of him to use that power to please himself, and make the lives of his people wretched. It is his honor to care for them, because they are weaker than he."

"It is wrong to make a promise and not keep it - and my father says that any word he speaks is as a promise; and so he must be careful of his words, to only say what he is willing to back up with his living." She stops, turning half away from the window, to see if any of this has made sense. "I cannot say if your people were honorable or not. I do not know them. But the one you serve, I /know/ that he is not."

The Easterling girl seems to be taking this in stride, her dark eyes flickering with thought as she crosses her arms. "I guess it makes sense in a way. People will surely like you more if you behave that way... though I guess it depends. Most Easterlings consider harming your family or your friends to be wrong. But someone you do not know? What obligation should you have towards them? I felt bad about what I did to you because I want you to be my friend but... I would not have questioned it otherwise if I barely even knew you or you were a complete stranger." She rolls her head back, her eyes dissapearing in her raven mane of hair. "We used to sing stories about the heroes of old. Of their Honor... it was very inspiring to me. It still is... it is one of the reasons I am not like most in the Church. Though... the honor we sang of has many similarities to your own there are some differences. Maybe it was the same notion before Humanity cleaved into nations."

"I do not do it to make people like me," Farielle says quietly. "And it is not true that people will. Those here think I am weak for it. I do it because it is what I was taught is right - and because it is the person I want to be. I do not want to be cruel some times and kind others. What if the person I did not know was someone I might love or honor if I knew them? I should be unkind to him simply because I didn't know him?"

She is silent a moment, a frown furrowing between her eyebrows. And it seems for the moment, that she doesn't see the room at all. Almost beneath her breath, she says, "I wish..." and is silent.

S'aria cants her head to the side at this, a lop-side smile on her face. "I do not think you are weak, Fari. There is a kind of strength in you that I respect... otherwise I would not try so hard to befriend you." She sighs though, threading her fingers through her hair, lifting those dark locks up above her head before they tumble back down to her shoulders. "I am not sure I understand why you do it then if not simply because that was what you were brought up with. If thats the case, the Haradrim cannot be blamed for following the way of their forefathers right?" She does give a brief nod though, "Some Easterling... that are more traditional used to talk about the 'big clan'. They talked about treating everyone like family. Perhaps that would be the closest to what you are talking about?"

As the other girl speaks softly, S'aria takes a brief step closer, her dark skirts swirling about her shapely legs with the movement. "W-what... what do you wish?", she asks, curiosity dancing in her youthful gaze.

"Family. Perhaps," Farielle answers. Her gaze, still distant, snaps back to the present. After a moment, she replies. "I wish that I could talk to my mother. Or my father." There is something strange in her eyes just then, a flash of some suppressed emotion. It is swiftly veiled again. "I told you," she says. "I do it because that is the person I want to be. I do not want to be hard and cold and uncaring of anyone else, or the pain my actions might bring them. When someone is kind to me, I ... " She stops. "I want to give that to other people."

The dark-haired teenager washes Farielle's face intently, sadness entering into her eyes as the other woman gives voice to her wish. S'aria gently steps towards the other girl, reaching most tenatively to try to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I... am sorry... Kidnapping is the gravest of crimes to my old people. Family is inviolate... What has been done to you is... reprehensible," she says with conviction in her voice, seeking out the other girl's eyes briefly before she retreats her hand whether it was accepted or not. "I can understand that. I spent much of my youth thinking about who I wanted to be when I grew up... I wanted to be like the heroes, have my name sung in the legends, maybe one day even return to the East and help my people reunify." A shadow of guilt passes over her features, "That girl in the island... she wasn't me. At least not what I want to be. I do not know if that makes things better or worse..."

Farielle doesn't move. She acts as if S'aria's hand isn't even there - but perhaps the other girl can take comfort in that she didn't jerk away. And her words... the girl listens, this is true. But it is late in the day for trust or acceptance. S'aria said words much like these in the past, and Farielle has been hurt by too many people too many times to open herself to still more. "Then do not be her," she says. "But trust is like an egg. If you drop it, it breaks, and you cannot unbreak it simply by saying you are sorry." A pause, and then a flicker of a smile, gone almost at once. "My mother said that, too."

"I... know. I know... but still, it would be even worse if I did not try to clean up the mess, right?", demurs S'aria with a sigh, her shoulders rising and falling with the heavy exhale of breath. A whistful smile forms on her face, those dark eyes growing misty for a moment as S'aria turns away from the other girl. "My mother... taught me much as well. She was wise... and a strong warrior. I think you would have liked her," she says softly before turning back to Farielle. She offers her a bit of a grin, the gesture somewhat uneasy as she tries to get away from these heavy topics, "Well I won't force you to talk about it anymore. Do you want me to teach you some of my healing arts? Perhaps that would suit your demeanor better than teaching you about the Law... You might even be able to make that creme yourself if you learn it well. And other useful things."

"I have studied with the healers," Farielle answers, politely enough. She seems about to refuse any instruction from S'aria at all, when she stops, arrested by some thought.

S'aria is not about to force the issue, the young Priestess pushing off from the wall as it seems Farielle is going to ask not to be taught today. But she notices Farielle's hesitation and tilts her head to the side, "Umm... what is it?", she inquires curiously.

"I want to know my way about the city," Farielle says, with sudden decision. "You can show me."

S'aria blinks with suprise, the young Priestess lifting a hand to scratch at the side of her head briefly. "Oh... well alright. Is there are particular place you want to go? I would suggest you bring a cloak, if not for the cold then to keep the sun off you. It is just as bright during the winter."

"Everywhere." Farielle's face - where once she might have wrinkled her nose in jesting disgust - instead goes more still and dispassionate at the mention of a cloak. With no expression at all in her voice, she says, "I shall wear a cloth about my head and face."

S'aria is not sure what to make of this but she can see no guile in the other woman's eyes and so with a nod of her head she makes her way towards the archway. "Alright then. I suppose we will go to the market place first... it would be good for you to know how to get there and then perhaps to the waterfront. The moist air would feel nice at this time of day I think," remarks the young priestess as she smiles with anticipation. "I will see you downstairs then, alright?"

_Back in Farielle's Room_

Evening has fallen, and the cool night air wafts through the room, stirring the cloths over the windows. Every lamp - and there are plenty - is burning. Farielle is sitting on her bed, cross-legged with her back against the wall, bent over something in her lap. Embroidery, maybe, from the occasional flash of a needle. Her eyes are distant, remembering the day - trying to keep straight in her mind the intricate twists and turns that lead about the city.

Another woman, a maidservant in her 20s, is sitting in a chair drinking tea. "...and then I said to her...!" She seems quite happy to be carrying on what is essentially a conversation with herself, as Farielle contributes nothing. The usual guard stands outside the door, which is shut.

There is a knock at the door, and then the expected waiting period for a call to come in.

Leena's story is cut off midword, and she sets her cup down to go to the door. "Who... Oh, it's you, my Lady." Turning, as she opens the door (no question here if Farielle wants to recieve this guest), she says, "It's Lady Eruphel, my Lady."

See? She was polite enough to knock, even though its her own tower. Eruphel slips in, wearing a soft flowing layered gown of blue, her slight bulge definitely starting to show now. As she looks around the room, it seems awfully crowded, for one, with so much furniture. She also notes how some of the furniture has been pushed across the conjoining door to Alkhaszor's room. "Marital difficulties?" she enquires with a slighly sardonic smile.

Farielle has looked up at Leena's announcement, but the faint polite smile with which she begins to greet Eruphel freezes, and something hard and bitter takes its place. For a moment. The girl looks down at her work, then lays it aside, and when she looks up again, the expression has been wiped from her face. "Please have a seat, Lady Eruphel," she says. "Would you care for a drink? Leena can fetch something..."

Eruphel smiles, and takes a seat, as offered. "A drink would be nice. Tea. With honey and lemon...Leena." She turns to the maid and smiles kindly, then turns back to Farielle. "I was glad to see you, when I came in just now, Lady Farielle. And for a moment I thought you were glad to see me. And then your face changed. What was that? What was that thought you refused to say?"

The maid hesitates at the door for a moment, looking back, then leaves.

Farielle looks away. "Surely you know, Lady," she says at last, her voice colorless. "You cannot be ignorant of what passes in your Tower. Or did you think I should be pleased to be bound to one who despises me?"

"I know...obviously I know. And if I did not, the arrangement of your furniture would tell me. But I do not know what /your/ thought was, and that was my question." Eruphel says.

The girl glances back at Eruphel. For a second, before she lowers her eyes again, the other woman might see a terrible anger there, and hatred. "You have not been unkind to me, Lady. It is better that we do not speak of it."

Eruphel seems less than pleased, the corners of her mouth turning downward slightly. "A friend and confidant would share it...unless it is directed at me personally. In which case, yes. Keep it to yourself. I do not wish to be displeased with you right now." She shifts slightly in her seat, curling her legs underneath. "Do you recall in Desert Tower that I suggested a position for you within my tower? As Lady in waiting?"

"No, Lady, it is not directed at you. I am sorry." Farielle curls her fingers together and looks at them intently. "I don't know what you wish me to say, though. I hate him. I will never know a husband, and never have a family. I am to spend my days being 'schooled' to manners by the priestesses of my people's greatest enemy. This ... marriage was blessed in the name of that one, and my - /husband/," she spits the word, "A man who claimed the honor of the men of Gondor, agreed willingly to this. He, who thinks me so vile and shameful that he could only be bribed into wedding me by being promised the Lordship of my family's lands - by the death of my brothers and father and uncles. I did not wish to speak because I thought him to be a friend of yours." Lost in her own bitterness and rage, she doesn't answer Eruphel's question.

Eruphel tries to school her expression to impassivity, though there are faint muscle twitches here and there. "You might know a husband...time will tell," she says calmly. "And it is quite alright to complain about Alkhaszor. Yes, I count him friend, and admire him. But I do not postulate that everyone I know must also like him, or elsewise keep their thoughts to themselves. He /is/ Gondorian, after all. To do so would require me to turn against my own people, for the discord is natural and seemly. And I am not sure if you noticed, but he may not have wanted to wed you either. He did so out of duty to his Liege. He was oath and honor bound to obey. Did he ever tell you I saved his life once?"

"I know very well he did not wish to wed me," Farielle says furiously. "He said so. At great length. And he did not seem bound in honor to obey - not until Lord Alphros - " This also she spits out, as if she can barely stand to say the words, " - offered him the lives of my kinsmen as blood money!"

"He has said nothing to me, save to tell me I am vile and shameful and a disgrace."

Eruphel is cool and calm and collected. "And were you vile and shameful and a disgrace? What did you do or say that prompted him to say that? He's not an unkind man. You've met unkind men here...who would hurt you with words just to see you squirm. Alkhaszor is not one of them." She sits back, folding her arms. "Lord Alphros gave Alkhaszor a title of Lord, but as Lord in a land Alphros has no posession of. The actual landing would come later, it was assumed, as a debt for his loyalty through this endeavor. Alkhaszor is in the unenviable situation of being a man without a country. It must be difficult. You need to separate your heart from your head, Farielle, and look at this from a distance."

"So by giving you to Alkhaszor in marriage, Alphros made a step closer to fulfilling his promise. You could easily have been wed to some Gondorian you disliked, had you never been brought to Harad. But of course, in order for the lands to legally to to him through you, everyone in line for those lands before you would have to be eliminated." Eruphel shifts, taking a moment for it to sink in. "/However/, as I said before, Alkhaszor is a kind and honorable man, and was very good to his first wife, trying his best to see to her care and safety. If you were to..." she sighs, struggling to find the word, "be amiable, lovable, loving, do you not think that by the time that day comes, if it ever comes, you could not save your family through his love for you?"

No one has ever called Farielle vile or disgraceful in her life. She gapes at Eruphel, startled for the moment out of the poisonous well of her thoughts. "I - " she says. "How could I have been? I said I didn't want to marry Lord Alphros, and... " She tries to cast her thoughts back to that day, her expression turning slightly sick as she does so. "I - I kept seeing the mask," she says finally, in a low voice. Her fingers clench together. "From when Vain ... I told you? That Lord Alphros wears. I - I asked him to take it off." Her voice is thinning in distress from the memories.

"I b-begged him. He only ignored me, and went on talking to that priestess..." The cool, callous voice echoes in her mind. "I said he would be no fit king for Gondor if he cared so little for those he wanted to be his people. And I said I would not consent to a wedding in the name of - of /him/." Her eyes flick towards the east. "He hates me, and I have done nothing to make him. That he loved his first wife is no reason to despise me; I did not choose to take her place."

Eruphel sighs. "So many topics to discuss." Another sigh. "We will save Lord Alphros for another day, except to say that for a very select few, he reveals his visage readily and often. For you to be one of those few, you would have to have gained his confidence, which I somewhat doubt you have even attempted to do." She looks toward the door, wondering where her tea is. "And likely he ignored you because his mind was already made up about you. And no, I do not believe you've told me about a mask, but I am willing to listen." Eruphel blinks, and her face is filled with compassion as Farielle's stress seems to rise. "Come here, and let me hold you, Farielle."

"When Vain... It was dark. All the time," Farielle says, her eyes dark with remembered horror. "Things moved and I never knew if they were real or not. I - I tried to find things and they vanished, and people that weren't there s-spoke to me. And touched me." She hugs herself, and shivers, and looks at the lamps to make sure. They are burning. "I saw him - Lord Alphros - his mask. Veil. It comes and goes in the dark, only sometimes it is bright. It - He - " She cannot continue, struggling to control herself. And in her anguish and fear and loneliness, she crumples, weeping, at last into Eruphel's arms - enemy or no, here is someone sympathetic.

"Wh-when I saw him, then," she continues at last, her voice dull. "I remember. All that. I think it is him. That he will... I didn't ask him to stop the wedding, or to change his mind. Only - only to help me." Alphros, to her, is cold and uncaring and callous.

It is now that the door opens quietly, and the maid returns, carrying a tray with hot water and cups and tea, and a small pot of honey.

Eruphel embraces Farielle and holds her tight, letting her cry, yet shushing her softly and rocking like one might a babe. She places a hand on the back of Farielle's hair, smoothing and petting it soothingly. "The mask is not Lord Alphros. What the man in the mask did is not him. The mask lets you hide your face, but still will let you see. Lord Alphros wears a veil to cover his eyes. His eyes, Farielle." Her eyes turn toward the maid as she returns with the trappings of tea. With only a meaningful direction of the eyes, from her face to the teapots, she hopes the maid picks up on her desire to pour the tea for them. "Asked who to help you, Farielle? Alphros? Or Alkhaszor?"

Farielle has not wept like this since a time in a tent in Caldur. A few tears, hastily stifled, but to let go, to stop trying to dam up all her emotions - no. It is a while before her sobs subside.

The maid silently pours out two cups, scooping a generous portion of honey into one and stirring it to dissolve, then retreats to her own chair.

"L-lord Alphros," Farielle manages at last to speak, though her voice wobbles still and is thick from crying. "It was the veil... Everyone tells me it wasn't him I saw, and - and I believe them, I think, but wh-when I see it, all that comes back. That's why I asked him to please take it off." She calms as she speaks, her voice dulling.

"Ah...yes. I see." Eruphel says. "Then it is well, is it not, that he decided not to marry you himself? Instead, he decided to marry you to one of his liegemen. I know you would have preferred not to be married but...it could have been worse, couldn't it." Once it seems safe to loosen her embrace, she does. "And, even better, not only is the man a Gondorian, and a Bragollach not just some commoner...but he is content to give you your space. Imagine how it would be if he lusted for you, and was intent on his rights as a husband, or cared not for whether you were a willing participant. There is much to be glad for, Farielle, if you can but look for it." She sighs.

"No," Farielle answers, tone numb from the emotional release. She leans back against her bed and wipes at her face. "He just hates me." The names he has called her ... a shudder runs through her body. And another at Eruphel's words, though she is too drained to summon up any more response.

Noticing the tea, she reaches for the cup nearest her and cradles it in her hands, shivering now as if she is freezing. It is the one with the honey, set there on purpose by the maid. Reserved, not friendly, but kind enough - or experienced enough - to know that the sweetness and the warmth of the tea will be welcome after this.

Eruphel lets Farielle pull herself back together. Then she leans forward to steep her own tea, stirring the hot water. "Hate can be changed, over time, Farielle. You hate him as well." She takes out the spoon and puts it on the tray. "Tell me, what...what one thing could Alkhaszor do that would make you not hate him?"

Farielle shakes her head. She doesn't believe he can - or will - change. "He was so ... " She stops, unable to find a word, and shivers again, looking slightly sick now at the memory of Alkhaszor's venomous words, his spiteful, malicious voice.

Her eyes lift to Eruphel's at the woman's question, then fall away, and she shakes her head again, whispering, "I don't know."

Eruphel shrugs, and smiles, and begins to offer suggestions. "Well, what if he defied Lord Alphros? I am not talking about what is likely, just...what would make you like him? What if he declared that your marriage never actually happened? What if he returned you to Gondor?" Many of these acts would be considered treasonous, of course. She adds lemon to her tea, and last of all, honey.

This brings Farielle's head up, her eyes wide. Something almost like alarm flies through them, and then is gone. "Yes," she says, voice barely above a whisper still. "If he let me go home..."

"Well. That at least is a positive thought. Maybe we can start from there as a starting point." Eruphel says, stirring the tea, then taking a sip. She takes a deep sigh. She did not come here for marriage counseling. "This is not what I came here for. I wished to know if you wanted to serve as my lady in waiting." she states bluntly.

The girl's shoulders sag and she bows her head again. A sip of tea. Of course, it couldn't be true. "I had forgotten," she confesses.

Eruphel nods once. Forgotten indeed. "Well then, I am reminding you. What are your thoughts on the matter?" She shifts in her seat, and shakes her head. "I must be getting old and doddering like my father." she mumbles to herself.

Eyes hidden by her bowed head, Farielle thinks. She takes a sip of her tea, and looks up. "If you still want me to. But... the guards. And - " A glance at Leena. "They are supposed to be with me all the time." There is a hint of question in her voice.

After a moment, tentatively, "Your father?"

"Do they watch you dress? The guards, I mean." Eruphel challenges boldly. Then she drinks more of her tea, making a face as she gets some of the tea leaves on her tongue, and picks them off. "My father, when I was about your age, was the Lord of Seaward. And he doted on a young, captured Gondorian. A Bragollach, no less, and gave him position and title within the tower, and took him into his confidence. The Bragollach used his position to betray my father and my tower, and escaped to Gondor. I hated his entire house...still do, really, with the exception of Alkhaszor."

"No, they stay outside. Leena and Hikalla are in here. But they go everywhere I go. Will that cause - problems?" Farielle asks delicately.

She looks down at her tea again, swirling the tea leaves around in the pale liquid. "How did he betray him?"

Eruphel smiles. "Now see? Not everywhere. And...if you are with me, likely you are safe. Or, we both are in peril. I will speak to Lord Alphros about it." Eruphel smiles, then that smile dims as she recalls the issue. "My father made the slave a Steward, because he had knowledge of ledgers and numbers and languages, and because he swore on his honor and my father believed him. But it was false. And it was possible for him to be a steward and yet remain a slave, as a steward never has need of blade or spear. But he had other means under his control. So he bought some bad salt pork...he knew it was bad, and he convinced my father to let him go on...a raid or something. And then he stocked the ship with the bad food. Then, while they were out, the entire crew became ill. They could scarcely fight off the Gondorian attackers. And the steward jumped ship and returned home."

"That was wrong," Farielle says slowly. "To swear and to break your word..." She takes another swallow of tea. "And to make so many men sick, so that they might have been killed... but probably they would kill others if they were not sick..." A sigh, and she shakes her head. The conundrums of honor.

"I think I would not have made people sick. But I probably would have jumped off of the boat." Her mouth twists in a self-mocking smile. Foolish to be imagining a situation long past - and one that will never come within her grasp. It is with almost a smile that she says - an attempt at a joke - "You are safe, Lady. I will not feed you bad pork."

Eruphel smiles and nods, her eyes betraying deeper thoughts, yet she says nothing. "Very well then. I would like to go to the Garden," she says, her tone suggesting what her words do not, that Farielle should attend. She rises, putting down her tea.

The last of her own tea is drunk, and the cup set down. Farielle rises, to go with Eruphel. When she leaves the room, the guardsman follows her at a discreet distance.

_Lominzil - Batsai - had thought of a plan. But... he twisted as if to scratch between his shoulders, scanning the street behind him as he did so. He kept thinking someone was following him; but no one was there. He made a disgusted face, spat on the cobbles, and shuffled off towards the place he had found. _

_Once there, he leaned against the wall, idly watching, until the alley was empty. It wasn't much used, he'd discovered, and so far, no one seemed to notice him as he slipped through a crack in the wall. It looked like nothing at all - like the stones had simply begun to crumble and the wall to lean; and when one looked at the crack, one saw newer stones built up behind, but he had noticed that if he squeezed through and then ducked down, there was a hole ..._

_He lay in the darkness, holding his breath and listened. Above him, sunlight streamed through the cracked wall, hitting the one behind. He could hear nothing. At last, he began to worm his way forward, crawling out at last into a dim, dusty room. It was piled high with barrels and crates - all of them, so far as he could tell, filled with clothing._

_Unseen, alone at last, he let a feral grin slide across his face. Cautiously, replacing what he didn't want as closely as possible to how it had been, he rummaged through the boxes. At last, he had a pair of silk trousers. A tunic. A slender belt. A cloak. Shoes. He stuffed them into a bag, and began the process of edging back out. Just below the crack, he stopped, shutting his eyes to listen more intently. This was the most dangerous part. _

_Slowly, he lifted himself, sliding one eye out just far enough to see the street. No one was there - he didn't think. He slipped out, giving a swift glance all around, and breathed a sigh of relief. Scuttling like the beggar he was, he returned to his closet of a room, and shoved his loot under his bed. _

_Weary as he was, he hardly dared to sleep more than catnaps, sitting upright on the edge of his bed so that if he fell too deeply asleep, he would waken as he began to fall. But this time, he dreamed of his sister. Not as she was now, thin and pale and haunted; but as she had been: lovely, vibrant, teasing him about something or other. In his dream, he wasn't sure what, and he protested, laughing. But she flitted away from him, and was gone, and he was awake, halfway off the bed. _

_He caught himself with his hands, and sat back up, still smiling._

_Tomorrow. He would try it tomorrow. _


	54. Chapter 54

Seaward Tower: Parapet

The skies surround and uplift one, here atop Seaward Tower: truly this must be how it feels to be a Lord, for sprawled out far below is Umbar, as if it were there for the taking! To the east is the City, where the minarets and battlements of the various Towers and citadels rise, and west is the sea; north is Caldur, sparkling like a jewel across the Bay, and south holds the desolation of the desert. A fine Looking Glass is set upon a tripod for viewing all things far and distant.

The battlements are crenellated, providing cover for archers, and are patrolled by vigilant men in the colours of Seaward Tower. Torches are placed at every third crenellation, and the stairway here is covered by a stone guardwall and canopy.

The morning sun rises behind; the sea stretches out, vast and glittering before. Farielle is leaning on the stone battlements, resting her arms on a low place and looking out into the west. The breeze off the water ruffles her hair and picks at the pale cloth wrapped around her head and neck to keep the sun off. Her guard stands at the stairway; two others in Seaward's colors walk steadily around, keeping watch.

The sound of light feet skipping up the stairs heralds the arrival of Amestris. She glances around, spotting the Gondorian lady and crosses to join her, smiling broadly. "Hello, Farielle! Your maid said you were here."

Farielle turns part-way as Amestris comes up to her. She smiles a little in response, then looks down and reaches within her light cape, bringing out a small bag. "Hello, Amestris." A pause, and then, "Here." She holds out the pouch.

"What is that?" Amestris says, looking down at the bag in Farielle's hand.

"For the bird," Farielle explains. A bit of nervousness shows in her face as she tries to find words that won't offend the younger girl; that will convince her to take the money. "Please, Amestris? It is a debt I owe you. It isn't much, but..."

The girl hesitates a moment, then nods her head and accepts the pouch silently. It disappears into her robes and Amestris turns to stare out over the sea. "It is a beautiful morning, is it not?" she comments, her smile returning. "It is finally getting warm again."

"Thank you," Farielle murmurs, and turns back to her vigil. "Getting warm! I am so hot already. The breeze is nice, though."

"Hot?" laughs Amestris. "It is not hot. It is your northern blood. I imagine it must be hotter than ours to live in such a cold place, like having a little brazier inside of you. I have heard in your land it is so cold that the rain is changed into something like tiny bits of cotton and it collects on the ground and does not leave until spring when it turns to rain drops again." She glances aside to her companion. "Does the sun shine less often there? Is that why you have no color?"

"Snow," Farielle explains. "But where I live, it does not get that cold. Only rarely. That is farther north. But no. I mean, yes. It is cloudier more often, especially in the winter. But that is not why my skin is pale. That is my ancestry."

Amestris appears to consider this for a moment then says. "You are colorless because you foremothers were, but that does not mean /they/ were not colorless because the sun shines less often." She does not wait for a response ere she turns suddenly and declares, "The sea is boring, let us go look at the city. I will show you a game I play with my brothers!" The salt-tanged wind gusts, lifting the gauzy orange head scarf about the Bazhani girl's head. She reaches for it, but the wind wafts it lazily just beyond her fingers.

A sudden wistfulness shadows Farielle's eyes and softens her voice. "No," she says quietly. "Perhaps for all but one - she, they say, was of elven kin. They do not darken in the sun, and that is why I do not. I only burn and peel, and am white again." She looks out into the west still longer - seeing, perhaps, a distant island - and it is only reluctantly, that she turns away at Amestris' suggestion. The scarf flaps, and she snatches for it.

Another laugh rings out as Amestris chases the scarf. "Oh thank you!" she says when Farielle snatches at the scarf. "Orange shall be the first color! But my scarf does not count!" she continues on until she comes to the opposite side of the tower.

Farielle is smiling, Amestris' laughter is contagious, and so is the girl's good humor.

Amestris leans upon a crenel, squinting in the rising sun to look out at the city spread below them. "I take my brothers to the top of Farside Tower sometimes, and we play a game. One of us picks a color and we each must find as many things in the city as we can. Whoever finds the most gets to choose the next color. When you find something, you should say what and where it is quickly, because once it has been spoken, no one else can claim it as their own."

"Oh," is Farielle's rather muffled response. She is rewinding her scarf, so that it shades her face from the sun now that they are on the eastern side of the tower. "There is a... well, something. There. See? I think it maybe is a stall-roof?"

"Oh yes! I see it," Amestris says. She shifts her eyes to the northeast where stands the massive stadium. "I see three orange banners flying over the stadium! That was too easy, though, there are many banners over the stadium. We can not see it so clearly from Farside."

"Do you count three for that?" Farielle inquires. "Um..." She squints down at the city. "I am not very good at this game... There! That orangey-colored building. It must be made of some different kind of stone to be that color. That's two for me."

Gradually the sound of someone humming softly in a foreign language begins to reach the two women's ears, for it seems the young Easterling Priestess S'aria has decided to come to the top of the tower to practice her dance. A bright smile on the dark-haired girl's features is seen as she appears in the stairwell, blinking briefly when she encounters the guard. "Ummm... is Lady Farielle here?", she asks with a blink before the man points out. Blinking at the stranger, S'aria approaches cautiously, "L...Lady Fairlle? Am I interrupting?", she asks suprise on her features as it seems Farielle is actually talking with someone.

"Oh yes, it counts," insists Amestris. "Sometimes you find things in clusters like that. As long as they are truly separate from one another it counts. Binadel once got six at once on one clothes line. The people in that house must have liked blue very much."  
The tribal girl's nose wrinkles as her gold-flecked brown eyes search the city. "Orange is a hard color..." She turns when her friend is addressed.

"Yes... Is that - No, it's red, I guess." She stiffens, the smile fading. It is a moment before she turns around. "S'aria."

Curiosity shines in the Easterling's expression as she looks over the tribal-girl with open curiosity, "Oh... greetings. I am S'aria, miss. Acolyte of the Eye and Envoy to Lord Alphros," she greets softly. A hint of sadness enters into the Priestess dark eyes as she looks up to Farielle, her mouth turning downard at the corners. "Would... you like me to leave, Farielle?", she asks, her hands folding behind her back.

Amestris looks at the Acolyte curiously and then back to her friend. She frowns slightly but remains mindful of her manners. She bows slightly. "I am Amestris bint Tiribazus anBazhani who is Captain of Farside Tower." Then she falls silent, clearly aware of the tension between the two young women.

Farielle's expression clearly says 'yes', but her words, civil if not friendly, say, "No."

Dissapointment is clear in S'aria's eyes, yet she turns back to Amestris giving the younger girl a warm smile. "You desert folk do not look to much different from us Easterlings. From behind I could swear you were from the East," remarks the young Priestess with a chuckle. Crossing her arms she exhales, "Well, I can tell when someone means no even when they say yes...", she says before turning to Amestris, smirking with amusement. "I will leave you two to have fun. Goodness knows the Lady could use it... Herbs and rest will only go so far afterall. I would be curious to know what tricks you have used on her to get her to open up to you, I have been trying for months now," she says with a chuckle.

The desert girl's frown deepens, though it appears to be in thought rather than disapproval. "I am not certain I understand you. When you say 'open up', do you mean friendship? If so, one cannot trick another into friendship. It must be freely given and accepted."

"Amestris is my friend," Farielle says quietly, echoing the younger girl's words. "She has never tricked me into anything." The sun slowly rises higher, and the breeze from off the ocean flags. The Gondorian girl is beginning to look a little wilted; though she is not yet too hot, she is still not used to the heat of the sun.

"Tricks to get her approval! Obviously it most be freely given...", demurs the dark-haired priestess, giving a little roll of her eyes. She folds her hands behind her head, elbows flanking her round face. "By the Dark One's might... Make a little joke and you both pile ontop of my like I am a corsair that slits little children's throats for gold coin," she murmurs under her breath.

S'aria frowns slightly as she looks over Farielle, worry in her eyes. "Have you been using that creme I gave you? I am not going to have you burn that pretty skin of yours under my watch... You look like one of those desert plants!", declares the Priestess, walking over to Farielle to peer closely at her skin. She reaches into her satchel with one hand, fumbling around inside of it as she speaks to Amestris, "Well, I was making good progress to gaining her 'acceptance' but I made a mistake. Its my own fault... still its good to know Lady Farielle has someone to open up to."

Looking slightly bewildered, Amestris shakes her head. "I see. You are not speaking of friendship at all, but of a game. Though I find it strange you speak so candidly of "tricks" and "mistakes". Perhaps that is why you have not won your game. My father talks of similar things. He calls it politics. I confess, I do not understand such things very well. But I do understand the Merchant's Art. If you wish to persuade a customer to part with his money, you should offer him something he wants and you should never reveal your true intentions."

Farielle stiffens still more, withdrawing into the scarf that shades her face. But whether it is the mention of the Enemy, or that of corsairs, or simply the assumption that tricks must be used to gain her approval, it is hard to say. But if S'aria brings out more of the skin cream, she will accept it. "I am not a - a dolphin, to be fed fish until I jump on command," she mutters under her breath. Opening her mouth, it seems she will say something more, louder - for S'aria to hear - but Amestris forestalls her and she is silent, only darting a glance sideways at the tribe-girl's comments.

"Your words contain wisdom beyond your years, Amestris. I see why Lady Farielle likes you," speaks the Priestess as she indeed produces more cream. But instead of giving it to Farielle, she begins to apply it, her gentle fingers rubbing the substance into the exposed parts of Farielle's skin unless she is ressted. "I am indeed a master of politics, if I may say so myself. You must certainly know something of the church, as you hail for the Desert-lands." She smiles wanly, "But do not impugn my intentions. I am not trying to swindle the Lady Farielle out of anything. I merely do not know how to go about getting what I want - her friendship - any other way. The sad thing is I fear I do not really know how to pursue something I want the way you speak." S'aria puts the creme away, wrinkling her nose slightly, a hint of melancholy in her expression. "Besides, I am not sure she would even like me if I just 'presented myself as I am'. I am a Priestess of the great enemy of her people after all..."

Amestris makes no comment on the subject of Churches and religion, nor does she betray much expression as the Acolyte speaks of it. When she does speak, it is on the previous subject. "You give friendship with no expectation of return. If it is returned, you are blessed. You cannot win friends."

"I will not deny that my friendship with Farielle is unusual. My people and hers are enemies too. When I first met her, I expected to hate her for my people live in the Harondor, along the Poros. Gondor brings war to our lands often and when it does, our crops are ruined, our villages burned and our men killed. Lean years follow times of war. But I felt no hate for an unhappy woman who missed her family."

Farielle's expression is blank. She lifts a hand, to fend off the priestess. "Please, S'aria. I would prefer to do it myself." Despite herself, there is a faint edge to her voice. "If I would not like you as you are, what good will presenting a false picture do? Then, when I discover it, I will be doubly angry, for having been betrayed. Already, you have shown me different faces. How am I to know which is true?"

S'aria gives Farielle her space, the easterling stepping back towards the middle of the tower. Her expression darkens a little bit, "Its not about decieving... its about presentation. You freeze up on me whenever I mention the church. It has been my whole life since I was eight so I focus on other things that cause less friction," remarks the dark-haired teenager as she folds her hands before her skirts. "I am not sure why I want it so bad. I guess... I think Lady Farielle could understand me far better than most of the Haradrim here," says S'aria with a hint of afrown, her dark eyes growing distant. She turns to Amestris and gives her a nod, "Neither do I. I lost my family when I was very young too... and I know what it is like to be taken from your home against your will."

S'aria wrinkles her nose a little, rubbing her hands together. "Its not lying. I will... hopefully talk to you about those other parts of my life. Just not until you are ready to see that they are not all of what I am..."

"My visits are always brief, Farielle," Amestris says, turning to her friend with a slight smile. "I must return home. Mother wants to do the washing today. I did not forget the promise I made before you went away. I do not know if you still have trouble eating, but I have brought you a meal. I left it in your room. I prepared it and it is the same my family ate so you need not fear it."

The Gondorian listens, her head bent slightly, so she is not looking at either of the other girls. She nods a little at S'aria's final words, in acknowledgement, perhaps. Until Amestris speaks to her and she looks up, smiling. "Thank you," Farielle says gratefully. "I - my appetite is not very good." She glances at S'aria and hesitates. "I keep all the lamps on," she says after a moment, striving for a light tone. "But I think I must wake the maids up anyways. I will come down; it is nearly lunch time."

S'aria smiles perhaps with a little bit a good-natured jealousy in her eyes at Amestris. She bows deeply towards the younger girl, her long dark bangs reaching for the floor. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Amestris. May the Eye watch over you," she says, offering the customary blessing. "Would you like me to accompany you? I can help you wake those lazy servants up," she says with a chuckle before she makes her way towards the stairs, a few steps after Amestris.

Farielle waits a few minutes longer, then follows. She does not particularly want S'aria to help her, but there seems little way of getting her to go away. Perhaps ... she nods. She will take a nap after lunch, and then go out. And tell the priestess that she is Not Needed.

* * *

_Marketplace_

_This open air marketplace is a veritable paradise for shoppers. Sights, sounds and smells assault the senses as soon as one sets foot in the Marketplace._

_Unlike the rest of Umbar, this vast acreage set aside for merchants and commerce boasts two streets running parallel from North to South, both of them three times the width of a normal road that winds through Umbar. Another equally wide street running East to West bisects the two roads, creating a grid._

_Flanking the roads and neatly lined are two story buildings, with shops on the ground level and living quarters on the upper level. Merchants from generations past have kept the tradition going, and here, people will find master craftsman and women hard at work, whether it be in jewelry making, bread baking, leatherworking or rugweaving._

_In the center of the wide roads that criss cross the Marketplace are the small individual stands, tightly crammed together. Merchants who sell their goods in these stands tend to cater to the every day shoppers by selling fresh fruits, vegetables, breads, cheeses and meats, along with baubles, household goods, tools and cheap, ready-made clothes. Each stand is shaded with its own canopy, and often decorated with colorful and enticing banners and signs._

_At the bottom of the social order of merchants are the peddlers who hawk their goods on carts, weaving through the throngs of shoppers, offering the best deal in the Marketplace._

_In the center of the grid is a stage where slaves are auctioned. When the stage is not being used to sell slaves, local artists perform for the enjoyment of the shoppers._

It's crowded this morning - Farielle generally comes out in the morning, when it is somewhat cooler and the veils wrapped around her face don't stifle so much. They are a pale cloth, a light green that matches her dress. Two guards and a maid accompany her, as usual.

"Fish," Farielle says, looking around the marketplace. Her eyes flit from person to person, as if she looks for someone. A beggar, perhaps? But no sign of disappointment is allowed to cross her face.

A tall, slender man stands nearby, apparently browsing a stall of earthenware. His sand-colored burnoose covers the top of his face, but his grey-blue eyes, glancing to the veiled woman, speak of mixed Gondorian blood.

"They are this way, my lady," says one of the guards, pointing out a path that will lead them past the tall man, but not very near. Farielle - still hunting for people on beggar-level - doesn't notice him. She nods and turns to follow Tariq as he makes a path for her through the crowd.

The other guard walks behind her, the maid at her side. "You must be sure and tell me if you get too hot, my lady," Hikalla says worriedly. "I will fetch you a drink, and Tariq can find you a bench to rest on."

Nearby, the man laughs pleasantly and hands a few coins to the shopkeeper, letting the other man count the change and hand it back to him (not a little bemused that this person does not know how to count!). He receives a little porcelain cup in return, painted in sea hues.

That laugh... Farielle stiffens, then makes herself relax, answering, "I will. You should not worry so much, Hikalla," as she scans the crowd. Of course, the man is taller than those around - but she is shorter than many.

As if he has overheard the conversation between Hikalla and her mistress, the man strolls over, sketching a languid bow in the manner of the North. He smiles, white teeth in a dark face. "A pretty cup for the pretty lady to have a drink?" he asks, his Westron syllables rounded.

Tariq ahead glances back, but does nothing more than pause, waiting watchfully. It is the guard who follows who comes a step or two closer, putting himself near enough that this man cannot draw a dagger without being stopped. The maid giggles. "And look at that, just what you are needing!"

The shock is a little less than it might have been, for knowing he is here, but still Farielle freezes, her eyes flying to the man's face - they are wide with what might be alarm.

"Tis nothing to fear, my lady," Hikalla says reassuringly. "Look, he but gives you a gift, isn't that nice? Go on then... don't you like it?" She giggles again and smiles roguishly up at the stranger.

"Thank you," Farielle says softly, at last, reaching out to take the cup. "But... I am married..."

"Oh, what does that matter? He's not trying to wed you, my lady! He only admires you. And if a man likes you, well..." Hikalla shrugs expressively. "It isn't like ..." She stops at Farielle's look.

"It is as she says," replies the stranger who is Lominzil, his grey eyes smiling with mingled joy and caution. "It matches your eyes, when you hold it up to drink, just so." To the guards he waves a placating hand. "Fear not, I will not molest your charge. She has had enough at the rougher hands of Umbar." Again, Common Tongue, as if to include Farielle in the conversation.

A faint flush, unseen behind the cloth, tints Farielle's cheeks. "Thank you," she says again, and the maid giggles.

"Now, isn't that a nice compliment," she says approvingly. The guards don't relax their vigil, despite Lominzil's casual wave.

Farielle's fingers brush her brother's as she takes the cup, and she smiles at him. This too cannot be seen, but the crinkles around her eyes show it. "And it is Seaward's colors," she says, as if merely commenting on the appropriateness of the gift. "Lady Eruphel will be pleased when I show her. I am to be a lady-in-waiting," she adds. Her eyes, fixed to his, show much the same expression - joy and warning. Of the guards, she comments, "They are very careful of me. They go with me everywhere." Carefully, "I am glad to be kept safe..." Another glance to see if he has understood her.

"It is good that you may walk Umbar, thus. It is a fair city with many interesting things, but none so fair as you," smiles Lominzil, nodding briefly at the later comment. "How should a humble young man address you, fair lady?"

Hikalla nods approvingly, "There, another pretty compliment. Just what you need, I daresay, my lady, to cheer you up."

"Farielle... Lady Farielle," Farielle corrects. "What - what is your name?" She sounds shy, tearing her gaze from his to look modestly at the ground for a few minutes.

"She's wife to Alkhaszor anAlkhaszor," pipes up the maid.

"My name is Elihu," states the young man, placing a hand on his heart. Yet he does not sound pleased at all at the maid's announcement, reluctance seeping into his smile. "And I am honored to make the acquaintance of Lady Farielle. Lord Alkhaszor must be a great man, to wed such a wife, and a busy one, to let her roam so!"

"Oh, well..." The maid sounds a bit flustered, darting a glance at her mistress.

Quietly, Farielle says, "My ... husband does not care for my company." She glances up, and for a brief moment, Elihu might see a cold, implacable hatred - if he recognizes such an expression in his little sister's face! Then it is gone.

"Oh, but..." Hikalla sounds almost miserable, "Surely, when he has had time - his first wife, you know, he loved her dearly..."

"That is enough, Hikalla," Farielle says, her voice still quiet, but unyielding.

"It is a sad, sad thing, to be unloved, dear lady," says Lominzil, his voice thick. "There is nothing worse than a void in the heart and an empty pillow at night. I am sorry for you, Lady Farielle."

That loud sniff might be the maid, a kind-hearted girl. Farielle looks down, that he might not see the sudden tears that have sprung to her eyes. Almost at random, to say something, she asks, "Have you a wife, sir?"

"None, lady. There was a girl that I once loved, yet I was too young and she maried a purveyor of wheat." Lominzil smiles fondly, glancing to the maid. "Oh, the things that she said! But perhaps it is a long story, for another time."

Another time. Farielle looks up suddenly as if abruptly aware of the time. "I must get fish," she says. "Thank you for the cup, it is very pretty."

"Of course," says the young man, bowing once more. "I am sorry for keeping the Lady anAlkhaszor with my idle chatter ... drink of the cup, and dream of love, Lady Farielle."

"Now, wasn't that a nice young man," Hikalla says as they move away. "Just what you're wanting, my lady, to put some color in those cheeks of yours. Why, I warrant he got you to smile! And to blush, too, I've no doubt! Tis a pity..." Her voice is lost in the crowd, and they are gone; Farielle clutching the cup tightly.

Said man glances about, then slips into a narrow alley.

_Farielle walked back to the tower in a daze, holding the memory close - she had spoken to him! - and spend the rest of the evening composing a letter that could be delivered to him, that anyone could read without suspecting._

_It was later that evening when she finally had it straight in her mind and asked Hikalla to bring her pen and paper. Smiling to herself, she dipped the pen in ink and began to write. They might suspect - but only that a young woman, married to a man she did not love, and who did not love her - had fallen instantly in love with the handsome you__ng man in the market._

* * *

Delivered to Elihu by Farielle's maid. Written in Westron.

I do not know words to express my emotions on seeing you. Perhaps you can imagine I never expected this would happen to me.

But I do not know how we can be together. My guardsmen go with me everywhere, and often a maid as well; and also I am married.

I am to go to the Ship Builder's Office to keep accounts for a time; perhaps I will see you along the way. I will hope this may be so.

Tonight, I shall say your name to myself, though it sounds strange on my tongue. I thank you again for the cup. It sits beside my bed where I can look at it and think of you.

Know, that beyond reason and beyond hope, I will love you.


	55. Chapter 55

Rath Bad-az

The Rath Bad-az continues its circuit around the western half of Umbar's inner walls. The street is paved with aged and weathered marble flagstones and is in a terrible state of disrepair. The surrounding area resembles a shanty-town-small one room hovels and dilapidated buildings are the lot of the poor of Umbar. The Rath Bad-az passes through the poorest part of the city-that which is commonly known as the thieves quarter.

The day sky is clear with only slight wisps of clouds overhead. The late morning spring air is hot and dry around you. The moon is last quarter.

Oddly, it seems that S'aria wants to take Farielle to the worst part of town first, excitement brimming on the young Priestess' features. Walking side-by-side the pair make an odd couple as they move down the sandy streets of umbar, dark-featured Easterling Priestess, a pendant of the eye dangling from her neck besides the fair Gondorian lady, as pale as the snow in in her distant lands. S'aria's dark clothing stands quite the contrast to the dirty grays and browns of this part of town, and the beggars who look upon her from the side of the streets gaze upon the girl some with reverence and others with fear. It seems, judging from the words of greeting S'aria gives to some of them, that she is familiar with this particular area.

"Batsai should be around here somewhere... he is very cute. I think you will like him a lot. I am sure if it were not for him being deaf he would serve a lady of high standing in Umbar. They pay a very high price for good-looking manservants," S'aria says as she approaches the lodging building, glancing over the assembled beggars here, seeming to be looking for someone. "I ever taught him a few words in Logathig, my native tongue. He seems pretty smart too... He asked about you when I first met him, the deaf beggars here must have some kind of sign-language they use."

The two guards are walking with hands on swords, looking around warily - and decidedly uncomfortably. Not, quite likely, with their abilities, but with the inherent possibilities for problems in a place like this. They pay less attention to the women, and more to scanning continually around.

Farielle is covered from head to foot in pale green. Her dress reaches from neck to ankles and covers her arms as well; and her head is wrapped in a sort of loose burnoose of the same fabric, drawn up to shield all her face save her eyes. She sounds a little confused as she asks, "But... if he is deaf how did he ask for me? And how did he know I was here /to/ ask for me? And... how did you teach him any words, if he can't hear you?"

Her maid, Hikalla, walks close behind her, her eyes wide and nervous - and disapproving. This is not an area of town fit for a lady!

"Several in my clan were deaf. They learn to read lips... though I guess I could have helped him the Haradrim, I kinda wanted a chance to practice my native tongue for once," admits the Easterling, admittedly less covered than Farielle, though she does have a black cloak which she occasionally shields her arms behind. "You are the talk of the town, my lady. Some who must know the beggar sign-language must have communicated it to him. And as for asking about you... it took quite a while of me guessing what he was asking me with his strange signing, but I figured it out after a while. He has eyes like you... so he had something to point to," explains the Easterling, realizing that some of this might be confusing. "I admit... I have some questions myself, but he is deaf so... one can only inquire so much. The Almsgivers from the Church could not give me any new information on him, he was probably very recently cast out of whatever home he was raised in."

"I ... see," Farielle answers, letting the subject drop, though she still sounds very perplexed.

"My lady," the maid says, "How long do you intend to stay here? It isn't /proper/."

The Gondorian girl looks around, stepping carefully over something better remaining unknown. "It isn't very ... clean down here," she admits, and looks to S'aria for an answer, before pointing up an alley. "What is up that way?"

"Well... if I had known you wanted to come out to today, I would have run ahead and checked if he was here," admits the young Priestess. She hardly seems to notice the squalor, it is not much worse than the conditions in the villages of Nurn afterall. Approaching the base of the lodging building, she moves to knock on one of the small wooden apartments. "I hope he is not out begging again... Half the reason I got him a home here was so he would not have to do that," demurs the girl as she knocks. Her dark eyes flicker down towards the Alley, "Probably a drug den or two... maybe a prostitution house. The city guards neglect this part of town so its the perfect place if it is out of the way." She snickers as she sees one of the beggars looking fondly at the maid, "Ohh. I think he likes you... he seems to want to marry up in life!", she teases the snobby woman.

Leena sniffs, and says nothing; but she gives the hapless beggar a glare.

"Must he beg to live?" Farielle looks at the apartment that S'aria is knocking at, and then up at the building as a whole. "Do many people live here? If they don't beg, what do they do?" Prostitution... she eyes the alley intently, as if making a note to herself to avoid it.

In the shadows behind the guards one now emerges, hesitating to step forward. It is Alkhaszor, and in the livery of Alphros's knights, he is certainly recognizable.

The Gondorian holds out a copper penny to the beggar who has been bothering Leena, and says, in recognizable if halting, Haradaic, "Leave alone her." She does not see Alkhaszor, though the guard nearest him does and nods once, before returning to his vigilant watch.

"As many as we can fit, the rooms around about the size of a closet and sometimes house three people. It is run by the Church for those who convert or who are converts that have fallen down on their luck," explains the dark-haired girl, a frown lacing onto her features. "We have other such places but the poor parts of town spread for miles and miles... The Den is on the opposite side of town, it is a more... dangerous kind of slum, reminds me more of my home. I have made some friends there so it is fairly safe for me to go... It is rather fun. Though I think you would half to bring a legion of guards to get there unharmed," S'aria says with a sad smile on her face. She turns to face Farielle and her entourage, "I apologize, naughty Batsai is not here. Unless you would like a tour of the slum districts, perhaps we should go somewhere where your guards would feel more at ease?"

Returning the nod to the guard, Alkhaszor draws up his hood, shadowing his face. He puts a finger to his lips-also directing his gaze toward S'aria as he does so. And then he flits from shadow to shadow to follow and listen.

The beggar snatches the coin and lets loose a babble of ingratiating Haradaic of which Farielle can understand nothing. He creeps closer to her, pawing at her skirt; the girl's eyes widen, though she doesn't cringe away, only shakes her head. Tariq - the other guard - steps forwards and says something roughly, and the beggar scuttles back.

Farielle gives Tariq a small smile which the guard returns jauntily, and nods to S'aria. "Yes... I think they would be happier. Leena certainly!"

"They sometimes try that on me... Usually a glare scares them away. But then again I am a Priestess so I suppose they have something more to fear than just physical harm," speaks S'aria with a chuckle before she, indeed, gives the beggar a stern glare, fire in her eyes. Then she she steps forward, her dark locks tailing out behind her as she moves. There is a certain confidence about the girl in these areas, betraying her lack of any snobbish upbringing. She remains a step ahead of Farielle, her fingers weaving together at the curve of her back, her eyes meet Alkhaszor's briefly in some shadowy corner, and he is given a dip of her head before she at last turns to Farielle. "Where would you like to go, my lady? I suppose we could head in the direction of the waterfront."

Farielle's face stiffens at S'aria's comment. "No," she says, her voice flattening. "I have been there. Somewhere else."

A bit of a frown forms on the Easterling's face as she glances over her shoulder to Farielle, wrinkling her nose in frustration at the other girl. "Well, where else would you like to go? There are several marketplaces in the city... there is the shrine of heroes, the other towers, the Dark Citadel, the Oasis? Do you have a particular inclination, my lady?", she asks, as polite and cordial as ever.

"The other towers," Farielle says after a moment of thought. "Where is Farside?"

"Lady Azradi's tower? Well, let us hope we do not run into Lady Farside herself, or I am sure I will get another lecture again," notes the Acolyte with a wry chuckle as she begins to walk towards the direction of Farside tower. She turns to incline her yellow-hued features towards Farielle, "Have you met Lord Alphros' sister yet? She is a rather... blustry sort of woman. I suppose the proper euphemism is that she has a very short-fuse."

"I have met Lady Azradi," Farielle says, her voice neutral. "She gave me some paints." There is a glint in her eyes - untranslatable. "I have not seen her for some time however."

"Paints? Well, she does claim to be decended from Gondorian royalty, like her brother... maybe that's why she was so much nicer to you than me," demurs the young Priestess, a bit of a shiver passing through her body as her dark eyes cloud with the memory. "Anyway, what do you know about the political structure of Umbar, my lady? Has anyone sat down and explained it to you?", asks the girl as she guides the other woman down the road towards the tower.

"There are five towers and each is ruled by a lord or lady. The city is ruled by a counsel made of those five," Farielle recites dutifully as they walk. The less poor the city becomes, the happier Leena - and the guards - become.

"Right. Well I see you know your stuff then," speaks the Easterling Priestess with a snicker as she guides Farielle through the streets of Umbar. Farielle is followed by two guards and her maid, S'aria leads her, a few steps ahead. "Well, its more like each tower is a 'fief' since the tower lords constantly bicker. Each tower roughly corresponds to a geographic area of Harad, over which the tower lord lays claim," explains the Priestess. "Besides the towers... the harbor master is quite strong and then the high Priestess of the dark citadel, my superior: Mara... who is incidentally also an Easterling."

A ragged, thin man is sitting by the road here, his begging bowl chipped and empty. Batsai raises his hooded head as S'aria approaches and smiles dumbly.

"I see," says Farielle, her tone not actively unfriendly, but not exactly encouraging either. She glances up, sees the beggar, and lets her eyes slide expressionlessly away from him as she reaches into her pouch for the coin she gives to all such she passes.

"Batsai!", exclaims S'aria about as exhuberently as could be, lifting a hand high into the air to wave to the deaf man, a smile lighting up her entering face. She turns back to her companions, a youthful brightness in her expression. "Here he is! The silly oaf must have eaten all the bread the Church dropped by his place too quickly..." And then she bounds over to the begger, her black hair whipping out behind her like the shadowy tail fo a coment. One hand fumbles in her satchel, quickly producing a piece of warm bread fresh from the bakery, while the other hand pats his head, even as she chides him saying: "You bad boy! We went all the way to your house looking for you." Despite the fact that she has already announced that he is deaf.

Farielle holds out a penny, putting a mechanical looking smile on her face, and looking worriedly at S'aria's back as the priestess speaks to the beggar. After a moment, she asks, "This is who you were talking about?"

Two lovely ladies. The beggar beams, bread in one hand, coin in another, looking sheepish as he is berated.

S'aria steps back, smiling from ear to ear, finally giving poor Batsai some space. She has not had a chance to show off her 'pet' before really. "Yep. I met him at the Desert Gate...", she says turning halfway between Farielle and the beggar man. "Isn't he just adorable? Its such a shame that a man like him is deaf. I bet some horibble Haradrim kicked him out of their home because they gave up trying to communicate to him." She then turns back to Batsai, pointing to his eyes, and then to Farielle's, before she holds her hands out towards the other woman as if 'presenting her'. Looking slightly embarassed at her miming, S'aria explains to her companions with a blushing face, "As I said... he went through alot of trouble to ask about you before."

The older guard's head turns at S'aria's words. "Asking about her?" he says in an ominous rumble, and stares at the beggar suspiciously. But before the priestess can reply, he seems to have decided there is no danger. "Probably all that fool coin she keeps handing out," he grunts and turns away - back to watching the streets and buildings and crowds around them.

Adorable. Farielle's face can hardly get any stiffer. "He looks awfully dirty," she says dubiously. "Do - do you think he was a servant somewhere then?"

The deaf beggar appears to listen meekly, nodding as he and the pale lady are introduced. He grovels befittingly, dirty forehead to the ground - though Gondorian blood, somehow, has found its mark upon him, with grey eyes and beardlessness on an otherwise unkempt complexion.

Bum says, "Kill the goody-two-shoes Gondorians!"

S'aria blinks, looking over Batsai for a moment. "Well I guess he is... but he smells nicer than me Father did when I last saw him. Guess I am more used to dirty faces than you are," she says before she gives Batsai an approving smile as he shows his respects, her hands folding behind her back. She answers Farielle quietly, "Must be. Maybe a mix between a Haradim and a Gondorian slave? I have no idea... Thats one of the reasons I like him. He seems like he would have a lot of stories to tell if only you could ask him," she says with a hint of melancholy in her voice. She turns to glare at the bum, "Now, now... none of that. The Lady Farielle is a guest in this city of Lord Alphros. And therefore is here with the approval of the Dark Lord himself," she warns him ominously.

Farielle watches the beggar, not much in her expression except a sort of unease. Finally, hesitantly, never looking away from him, she holds out the copper coin. S'aria's final words being a snap of anger to her blue-grey eyes, but she bites back the words she might say. When she can speak and sound reasonably unemotional again, she says, "You like him because he looks like he could tell stories?" This seems to bring a fleeting glint of amusement.

Batsai takes the coin, plopping it delightedly into his begging bowl. Yet the Look he gives the Bum under his hood is sharp as a knife, burning cold with killing intent.

The beggar giggles soundlessly and draws up his knees to his chest.

S'aria looks back to Farielle, suprised at the anger in her eyes for a moment before realization sets in. Yet instead of dwelling on it, she presses on, her lips curving up into a smirk, continue to speak in Westron. "Doesn't he just look like he has a story to tell? Like..." She scrunches her mouth to one side, dark eyes brimming with thought. "Like maybe his father was a Gondorian nobleman, and his mother a beautiful traveling merchant from the Haradwaith. They met in chance at the border and it was love at first sight! And they begot a brilliant child as testament to the forbidden union." Her voice rises as she reaches the climate of her story, "But happiness was not to be! For the wicked witch set forth from the forest, and cursed their union for being impure... And father, mother and child were all struck with the curse of silence so that never would they be able to tell of their story, and forced to wander the world as beggars." Her eyes gleam with amusement as the girl finishes her tale, "I love stories. To tell the truth one of the reasons I wanted to befriend you early on is so you could tell me about Gondor. I used to get the urge to just want to run away and go travel to see all the world has to offer... still do sometimes."

Farielle's gaze is at last wrenched away from the beggar, whom she has been watching with a sort of fascination; to stare open-mouthed at S'aria. Though, since her scarf covers most of her face, her expression is invisible. "I can see that you do," she says a little faintly. "If you wanted to hear tales of Gondor, you never said so..."

Behind S'aria's back, Batsai is very, very quiet; almost as if he were holding his breath, restraining himself from moving. His bandaged hands are fists.

Oblivious to Batsai at the moment, S'aria has her back to the man, her hands folded atop the silky black locks atop her head. "I think I got distracted with... other things involving you," speaks the young Priestess before her eyes widen with interest. "I... would love to hear about it sometime, if you want to tell me. I guess I thought asking you directly would seem... invasive," she says with a shrug of her shoulders. She turns back to Batsai, glancing to him briefly, "Do you want to see some place else, Lady Farielle? We should not spend too much time outside due to the sun..."

The older girl stares at S'aria for a moment as if she cannot believe what she has just heard. Then she shakes her head a little, and says, "You were showing me where Farside tower is."

The beggar stares after them a moment, then retreats into the shadows, only the begging-bowl and his pitiful rag-bound feet visible.

A slight crimson blush colors S'aria's features as she lifts a hand to give Batsai a playful wave goodnight, "May the Eye watch over you, Batsai," she says as her other hand extends from her chest, palm extending upwards in a gesture of blessing. With a final smile for the departing beggar, she turns to head up the road towards Farside. "So... do you want to tell me about Gondor as we go? Or should I continue lecturing you on Umbar?", asks the Easterling girl with a bemused smirk.

"Neither," Farielle answers evenly. She hides her eyes for a moment, by fussing with her headcloth; Leena comes forward to arrange it neatly for her. "Which way is Farside? And..." She stops and looks around, then points. "We came that way, yes? From Seaward?"

A flicker of disappointment shines in S'aria's eyes but she does not protest. Her lips press together in thought for a moment as she nods, "Yes. As I understand it we are almost in the middle of the lower city. So to the north and east is desert tower, while to the north and west is Seaward. Farsede is south-east of Seaward if my memory serves correctly," remarks S'aria as she heads up the road, in an attempt to find the Farside tower.

"I see," is the Gondorian's reply as she walks in the indicated direction, paying careful attention to the roads and buildings. "Everything is in a circle. This is the lower city, you said... what is in the upper city?"

S'aria lingers besides Farielle as they approach the looming monolith of Farside tower, the dark-haired youth folding her hands behind her back. Her eyes flicker with surprise, "Oh? You have not been there yet? It is the best part of the city! All the most elegant and cultured buildings are there," says the Easterling with a hurried nod. "The upper-city has The Oasis, which is the best club in tower. The library, all the governmental buildings, and the finest shops and marketplaces!"

"No." Farielle looks up at the tower, the pale purple color gleaming in the sunlight. "I have not." Amestris' father works here; Nisrin lives here now and presumably Yildirim...

"It's off-limits to Gondorians," says Leena, with a faint hint of satisfaction in her voice. Farielle gives no sign of having heard her, but she turns away from the tower. "I am getting hot," she says, unemotionally. "And I think it is lunchtime." That she is not hungry, she doesn't mention; but picks the direction she believes to be correct to return to Seaward.

"No, no! Fari... its the other way!", calls S'aria with surpise as the Gondorian woman heads off in the wrong direction. The dainty Priestess quickly catches with with Farielle and reaches to grab her sleep to tug her in the right direction. She gives an annoyed glance in Lenne's direction but leaves it at that, frowning a little bit as she holds a hand up to the sun above. "I think the sun is starting to get to me anyway... they will never let me dance at the oasis if I get scorched," she says as she walks with the group back towards their home.

Silently, Farielle lets herself be turned; though she pauses a moment to look around, a slight frown drawing her eyebrows together as she memorizes which way is right. "It is getting hotter and hotter," she says impassively - an innocuous subject. "It must be dreadful in the summer."

"I hate to ponder it... I will have to dress up like you sooner and later. And then what good are my youthful good looks if I cannot show them off?", speaks the Priestess with equal parts amusement and apprehension at the thought of a summer in the dreadful city. "We used to go to mountain springs during the summer months back in Nurn, I guess they probably go frolick in the ocean spray to cool down here," suggest S'aria, a bead of sweat already forming at the edge of her dark brows


End file.
